


Once More, Plainly

by OddlyExquisite



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Character Death (of a sort), Creche-Master Anakin, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Happy Ending, M/M, Multi, Other, Past Lives, Reincarnation, Time Travel, Timeline What Timeline, Weird Plot Shit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-08
Updated: 2016-12-04
Packaged: 2018-05-25 11:28:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 20
Words: 31,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6193291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OddlyExquisite/pseuds/OddlyExquisite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>You love him, and this time he doesn't love you back. That, however, is not the real tragedy.</em> </p><p>Qui-Gon Jinn thinks he's missed the very thing he's been searching for across hundreds of lifetimes -- until it comes looking for him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. On the Brink

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Twenty Five Lives](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3683133) by [darthrevaan (Burning_Nightingale)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Burning_Nightingale/pseuds/darthrevaan). 



> 1) Updates will likely be slow because I recently moved, and because my thesis is due in a few months.
> 
> 2) I will be updating the tags as this fic progresses. This fic is weird, but I hope you like it all the same!
> 
> 3) Fic title from "The Embrace" by Mark Doty:  
> "Bless you. You came back, so I could see you  
> once more, plainly, so I could rest against you  
> without thinking this happiness lessened anything,  
> without thinking you were alive again."

* * *

 

The first time he meets Qui-Gon Jinn, Obi-Wan is thinking of someone else.

The Temple on Coruscant is incredibly vast. As a child, Obi-Wan was certain it must go on forever, that the hallways, the workout rooms, the familiar scent of sweat and leather would always be there no matter how far he walked. There are so many empty classrooms and unused crevices that it is never hard to find the space to be alone.

This is why, when Obi-Wan sees someone standing at his favorite balcony, he almost thinks it is on purpose.

The man is tall, gripping the balcony railing with white-knuckled hands. Long chestnut hair falls out of its plait, curling at the ends. The blaster-burns on his cloak and the holes in his tunic tell Obi-Wan that he is just back from transport and most likely waiting for the Council. The young Padawan steps closer and catches the faint smell of smoke; something bitter and heavy enough to gag him if he allows it.

Fourteen year-old Obi-Wan fidgets; it is dawn and there is a strange Master at the balcony.  _His_ balcony, where he comes to watch the traffic every morning. He had wanted to meet with Bant before she left for a mission in the outer-rim. There was no telling how long she'd be gone, after all, or if she'd be coming back...

_"Master Tahl is more than capable of protecting her Padawan." Master U'lln reassured him with a ruffle of his hair, "You Padawans are our very lives, Obi-Wan, and it is our job to know your limits before you do. Trust in the Force. Padawan Eerin will return to you, safely."_

And though Obi-Wan had tried so very hard to believe his Master, the worry he's buried deep within himself is a constant warning in the back of his head like a memory he cannot let go of. It almost feels like fate, Obi-Wan thinks. It almost feels like he's destined to lose everyone he's ever loved. 

"There is room enough on this balcony for both of us, I think."

Obi-Wan starts when the Jedi Master speaks. His voice is low and rough with exhaustion, but pleasant. Hesitantly, Obi-Wan pads to the Jedi Master's side, trying to ignore the scent that he would later learn spoke of rot and death and war. 

"I'm Obi-Wan Kenobi, Master," he offers quietly, when it appears that the older man is content to watch the Coruscant traffic in silence.

"A fellow balcony enthusiast, I presume?" The man turns toward him, "I-"

The Jedi Master stares at him then, impossibly still. Obi-Wan wonders if he is even breathing. He cannot read the expression on the man's face, the emotions swirling in those intense blue eyes, but he sees the Master's hand twitch as if stilling the urge to reach out and grab something.

"Master?"

The man blinks and seems to come back to himself. "I...I apologize," he murmurs, tucking his hands into the sleeves of his cloak, "I was...lost in thought." The Jedi Master seems to shake himself then, and offers a gentle smile. "I am afraid I must leave and meet with the Council. It was good...very good to meet you, Padawan Kenobi. I hope we cross paths again."

Obi-Wan offers a grin of his own, "Of course, Master. Good luck with the Council!"

The comment draws a chuckle from the older man, amusement temporarily erasing several years from his face, "Thank you, young one. I shall need it."

Before the Jedi Master disappears, Obi-Wan shouts after him, "What's your name, Master?"

The man glances over his shoulder, "Qui-Gon Jinn!"

Obi-Wan wonders if the flash of fear in the weary man's eyes had anything to do with him.

 

*********

When the Council asks him a favor eleven years later, Knight Obi-Wan Kenobi refuses.

"I am honored to have been considered, Masters," Obi-Wan says with a polite bow, "but Master Jinn would benefit from a partner with more experience."

It is not unusual for the Council to ask Obi-Wan to perform delicate tasks, but pairing with Qui-Gon Jinn on a long term mission is more than he cares to handle.

After all, things have changed.

 

*********

The second time the Council asks, Obi-Wan has made a name for himself.

The Council has called on him before to perform what they term "necessary retrievals". Whether it is pulling new Knights from negotiations they cannot handle, or rescuing seasoned Masters from desperate war zones, he has done it all. There are certain people the Council relies on for quiet, efficient action and he is one of them. In the two years that have passed since his knighting, it has become fairly well known across the galaxy that Jedi Obi-Wan Kenobi can either solve your problems, or give you worse ones. The former being much more preferable.

Obi-Wan makes it clear that if he is dismissed from his peacekeeping post on Bespin, the Council will have far more to worry about than a bunch of angry diplomats. This does not necessarily seem to bother the Council, though, because the third time they ask him a month or so later, it is an order.

"Heard us, you did!" Yoda says irritably, "Qui-Gon Jinn is a top negotiator. Find him, you must!" 

Obi-Wan had been on Treskin IV, supervising the rebuilding of infrastructure after a horrendous civil war, when he had been unceremoniously ordered back to the Temple. He was far more concerned with the reinstatement of Republic law on that mid-rim planet than chasing after an overbearing, nearly grey Jedi who had probably just overlooked the importance of telling Karthys' diplomatic envoy where he was going. Master Jinn was a fine fighter and one of the best diplomats in the Order; a Jedi Master like him didn't just get _lost_.

"With all due respect, Masters," Obi-Wan begins, "The people of Treskin IV-"

"-will be taken care of. We've already dispatched a replacement team to your post." Master Windu interrupts.

"I am not responsible for-"

"You are responsible for whatever we say you are, Obi-Wan." 

The silence is brief, but only because this is Knight Kenobi, whose name is nearly synonymous with loyalty and duty.

Obi-Wan bows low, "Yes, Masters."

 

*********

The problem, Obi-Wan reflects on his transport to Karthys, is not that Qui-Gon Jinn's request is taking him away from his post on Treskin IV. As long as there are other Jedi to see to his job, he has no issue with that. Rather, the problem is the utter disregard with which the man has treated him since their first meeting, years ago.

He had not run into Master Jinn often throughout his training; the Jedi Master was in great demand and rarely seen in Temple. When they both happened to be on Coruscant, however, their meetings had not been pleasant. Obi-Wan distinctly remembered the shame of giving a wrong answer in Master Jinn's seminar on humanitarian intervention services, remembered the cool, dismissive gaze glide past him as the Jedi Master called on another student. He remembered an odd eagerness to impress Master Jinn at one of the annual tournaments, and the humiliation upon being beaten quite soundly by none other than the Jedi Master himself. He remembered the polite refusal Master Jinn gave at Master U'lln's request to train Obi-Wan in hand-to-hand combat.

_"He needs to learn how to fight opponents larger than five feet," he hears Master U'lln say from behind the conference room door, "and you're really the best man for it, Qui, don't be modest."_

_"This is not modesty, Llinny," The Jedi Master returns quietly, "I cannot train the boy."_

_"Why not?" Obi-Wan hears his Master's protest loud and clear from where he waited in the hallway. He knows he shouldn't be eavesdropping, but he cannot help but overhear. "Tell me this isn't about...Qui-Gon it's been_  years  _since-"_

_"Llinny-"_

_"That's it, then? You're going to punish a boy who had nothing to do with...when Xanantos. Because he doesn't remember?!"_

_"This is not a punishment...I can't, I can't look at him without...there are-"_

_"Nevermind. Save it. I have a Padawan to tend to. A_  brilliant  _Padawan. I'll find a Master more deserving of his attention to teach him what you won't."_

_"Llinny please, we need to talk. I need to explain-"_

_"Oh, we'll talk! But you'd best remember that he doesn't need you this time around, Qui-Gon."_

_"I know," The man's voice is raw with some indistinct emotion, "I made sure of it."_

_Obi-Wan recoils from the door as if stung, thick knots of embarrassment and anger roiling in his stomach. He does not want to hear the rest...he is hurt, deeply hurt by the implication that he is not good enough, and he cannot pretend otherwise. When Master U'lln stomps out of the meeting room and sees him, her expression softens._

_"Come on, Obi. Let's get out of here."_

_"What? Where, Master?" Obi-Wan trots along obediently, just behind his Master._

_U'lln tosses him a bright grin, "Can't a Master take her Padawan out to lunch someplace besides the commissary? Gods, Obi-Wannie, don't tell me you_ want  _to eat chilled gorrnar today?"_

_Obi-Wan grins at the childhood nickname, "No way! Right behind you, Master!"  The knots in his stomach lessen, and he puts Master Jinn firmly out of his mind..._

The memory fades and Obi-Wan finds himself sitting on the cold metal floor of his cabin. He stands, rolling the kinks from his shoulders. 

He is not that child anymore. He is no longer a Padawan learner, no longer an inexperienced Knight on his first missions alone. He is a competent, capable Jedi, committed to the Light and deserving of his Knighthood. Master Jinn will no longer be able to ignore him, hide from him, or dismiss him. Despite this, Obi-Wan knows that the sight of Qui-Gon Jinn has never failed to elicit a myriad of emotions in him. Perhaps, Obi-Wan muses, running a hand through his hair, things had changed.

But as he steps into the 'fresher, he catches sight of his reflection in the mirror, seeing only tired apprehension and a sternness that wasn't there fifteen years ago.

 

*****

 

 


	2. Journal Entry #1

* * *

 

_Journal Entry #1  
Undated_

 

No matter what I say here, no matter how it seems, I need you to remember that this is not just a love story. This is, partly, a tragedy.

Imagine, if you will:

You are in love. You cannot remember where you were before, and you do not know where you will be after, but you know that this love has always been there. Somehow this fact is incontrovertible. 

You are in love, dear reader, and that is where the story ends.

Because this is not a fairy-tale. It may not have a happy ending. I am not writing to fill these pages with the claws of angry beasts and the warnings of crazed old women. Nor am I writing because this story is particularly important. Simply; I am writing in order to exorcise my demons and make sense of what is surrounding me. No small task, I think you will agree.

This story will come out in pieces; slowly and in no particular order. You will find that time does not necessarily matter here. This story does not have a beginning or an end, it just  _is_. (It is hard, I know, to unlearn everything you have been taught about time, about life and death and the meaning behind it all. I almost hate to say it, dear reader, but life only looks linear because of where you are standing.)

Even so, I suppose I must find a place to start. I must create my own beginning.

It starts off slowly; vague feelings of déjà vu, too-vivid dreams, meetings with people and the subsequent astonishment- haven't you seen each other before? Wasn't he a bit shorter, with black hair instead of brown? Wasn't her voice pitched higher, didn't she hate jewelry? But of course, you cannot voice your confusion out loud. This is the first time you have met, after all.

It gets worse after that. You never leave your keys in the same place twice because, with the inordinate amount of keys you've owned, there has never been any one place for you to put them. You placed them on the countertop in the kitchen last time, but at present you do not have a countertop, or even a kitchen. (Are they on top of the fridge? In the laundry pile? Is this the time you put them inside the grandfather clock or was that the time before?) Eventually it makes more sense just to throw them down and leave the door to your apartment permanently unlocked.

You begin to remember facts that do not make sense, events that have never happened. You start seeing things; finding memories that are not your own. Or are they? You feel like you are living another life in your dreams because the things inside of them are _tangible_. Eventually you start to realize that maybe...maybe they were.

It was never meant to be this way, you realize. Some barriers are not meant to be broken. And no, before you ask, I do not have all the answers. But then, if I had the _why_ and the  _how_ of this existence, the journey would be meaningless. 

Now, I will tell you more- plenty more- eventually. For now, all there is left to tell you is that there will come a time when you believe everything is finished. But that, in fact, will just be the beginning.   

 


	3. A Temporary Cease-Fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks as always to my Beta, the magical Merry_Amelie!

* * *

 

When the Jedi Master looks up and sees the young Knight, he is astounded. (Which is a bit bold, Obi-Wan thinks, for a weaponless man shackled to the wall of a prison cell a hundred feet below the surface of Karthys, but that's Qui-Gon Jinn for you). 

"You."

Something in Obi-Wan's gut twists.

"If I had known they were going to send you, I would have..."

Obi-Wan steps forward and ignites his lightsaber, severing the man's shackles with more force than necessary. "Yes, well. It's a bit late for that now." His voice is nearly as sharp as the disapproval in Qui-Gon's eyes.

The Jedi Master has aged, Obi-Wan thinks critically. Somehow, it just didn't seem possible for a man like Master Jinn. Surely the raw strength of his spirit and his connection to the Living Force should have made him immortal. But the streaks of grey in the chestnut-brown hair, the faint lines at the corners of his eyes speak of weariness. Master Jinn climbs to his feet, rubbing the circulation back into his wrists with a frown. Obi-Wan notes with some amusement that after all this time, he still has to look  _up_ at the man.

 _Not much has changed after all,_ Obi-Wan thinks resignedly, studying the intricately woven braids in the Master's hair. It is strung with small gold beads and delicate golden threads; a traditional gesture of welcome from the Karthysians. Obi-Wan, having come through the back door at night, so to speak, has not received the ceremonial welcome. In fact, the only welcomes he's received have been the whispered pleas of a dying monarch and blaster fire from the Separatist faction.

Obi-Wan hands the Jedi Master his lightsaber, having recovered it from the prison guards. "In the interest of total transparency, my orders are to bring you back to the Temple safely. I'm to be your partner on this mission until the coronation." 

Qui-Gon brushes past the young Knight, leading the way out of the subterranean prison. "I do not need a Council-sent babysitter." His voice is low and rough.

"Of course," Obi-Wan answers mildly, falling into step beside him, "the chains were just for show."

"Knight Kenobi--"

"Obi-Wan."

"Knight Kenobi," the Jedi Master insists firmly, eyes fixed straight ahead, "I am certain your talents would be of better use elsewhere. It is not safe here."

Obi-Wan glances sideways at his companion, unsure if the comment were meant out of concern, or out of doubt. He was a Jedi Knight; he did not seek a sheltered life. He did not need safety, having lived so often without it. Did the man distrust his abilities as a Knight?

"I am under direct orders from the Council--"

The Jedi Master stops, turns toward him, "I don't think you understand--"

"I understand perfectly, Master Jinn." Obi-Wan speaks quietly but each word drops from his lips like ice. "I am under orders to ensure your safety and in my capacity as a Knight of the Order, I will do so."

There is a small silence.

"My apologies," the Jedi Master says stiffly, "I did not mean to cause offense."

Obi-Wan nods, accepting the apology. Inwardly, however, he suspects that the partnership is doomed to strife, no matter what he does. Despite the dimness of the tunnels, the dark circles beneath his companion's eyes are visible, just like the the slow, trembling exhaustion of muscles that have been held in one position for far too long. Suddenly, Obi-Wan is ashamed. "Come," his says, his voice gentler now, "the sooner we return to the palace, the sooner your wounds will be treated."

They do not speak again until they reach the palace. Obi-Wan had tracked the Separatist guards seven miles outside of the city to the old gold mine they had converted to a prison. He did not know how long Qui-Gon had been held there, or what they had done to him. As they walk, it is perfectly clear to the young Knight that the Jedi Master had not been treated gently. The Jedi Master's ripped, bloodstained tunics speak for themselves. 

They trudge seven miles back to the city, a short call from Obi-Wan's comlink letting them know that the Separatist troops surrounding the palace have been pacified by the royal army. The Karthysian farmers watch them pass, marking the alert, crackling energy of the shorter Jedi Knight, and the calm, flowing movements of the taller one. When they sit down to eat at midday, Obi-Wan catches a glimpse of the scratches and blisters underneath the dirt on the soles of Qui-Gon's feet.

The Jedi Master notices his scrutiny, and pointedly tucks his feet away.

 

*****

"...naturally we all desire the political and economic security of the lower classes, but the proposed labor laws are absolutely preposterous! To outlaw inherited debt would be to..."

Obi-Wan sits at Master Jinn's side as his equal, the perfect picture of attentiveness and serenity. They had been asked by the King's advisor to oversee negotiations between the interim monarch and the Separatist movement. Since they had a week until the coronation, they had agreed.

The introductions would have gone more smoothly if they could have figured out which biological sex the interim monarch was that day, but as it happened, the incident was not held against them. After all, any identifying physical traits were hidden by the voluminous robes of state, and it was not seen as appropriate for off-worlders to see them. Obi-Wan considered it quite remarkable that Karthysians were able to change their biological sex at will, admiring the freedom it afforded them in terms of the societal norms one usually saw imposed on human communities. Indeed, the Karthysians were very much opposed to "putting beings in boxes," as the King's advisor had remarked earlier that day. 

Obi-Wan surfaces from his distractions just in time to hear the Jedi Master's calm rebuttal. "The Jedi Order is a neutral party," Qui-Gon explains, sending out thin, soothing waves of the Force, "and it is in the best interest of both parties involved that we..."

Fixing part of his attention at the negotiations at hand, despite Qui-Gon's assertions that he could handle them alone, Obi-Wan allows himself to fall into the gentle-Force-guided feeling of the meeting room. Master Jinn was truly brilliant as a diplomat, Obi-Wan knew, and was a force to be reckoned with; he did not need the young Knight's help, but Obi-Wan was determined to present a united front to both the Karthysian monarchy and the Separatist movement. The image of the Jedi Order must be maintained after all, and it would not do to sulk in their shared quarters while Qui-Gon faced these factions alone.

Sun streamed through the stained glass windows, making the gold in Qui-Gon's hair glitter with every movement. His braid is simple today; one long rope hanging over his shoulder. Obi-Wan wonders how the Jedi Master had washed it without ruining any of the ornamentation. His own hair was too short for beads and threads, so the Karthysians had settled for dusting gold powder into his hair. The shower had washed nearly all of it out.

It is funny, Obi-Wan muses; he almost feels like he has been here before. He hasn't, of course, but knowledge of that fact does not shake the feeling that he has been in this same room before, surrounded by the same beings, sitting next to a man that looks remarkably like Master Jinn.

It's crazy, of course.

Tiny gold sparkles dance at the corner of his vision as Qui-Gon gestures and shakes his head. It  _was_ crazy, wasn't it? He hardly knows the man, so why this feeling of inexplicable inevitability? Like he is waking from some dream he...

"Ambassador Kenobi?"

Obi-Wan blinks, recalling the question a half-moment later; too quickly for anyone but a Jedi to notice that he had not been paying full attention.

He can practically feel Master Jinn's disapproval.

"You might consider calling for a temporary cease-fire while negotiations are being held," Obi-Wan answers wryly, "as it would be best for both parties if Master Jinn and I, as third-party negotiators, were able to do our jobs without risk of...spontaneous imprisonment."

Damn. Things  _hadn't_ changed. Not one bloody bit.

 

*****

At night, the Jedi Master unbraids his hair.

They are in the common room of their palace quarters. Obi-Wan is nursing a cup of tea as he scrolls through the latest news on his datapad. A small 'ping' alerts him when the Council updates their mission files. He learns to ignore them. Qui-Gon is scribbling away in a thick, leather-bound journal as he does every night. The scratch of pen on flimsy is not a sound Obi-Wan is accustomed to; even so, it is strangely comforting.

"How much did you pay for that?" he finds himself asking.

The Jedi Master looks up in surprise. "Pay for what?"

Obi-Wan gestures with his cup of tea. "The book."

He didn't pay anything for it. "I salvaged it from the old archives on Hosnian Prime."

"Hmph." Obi-Wan takes another sip of his tea. Spice and cinnamon-- warmth after a long day, far from home.

A few minutes pass, and the young Knight cannot concentrate on the newsfeed. He shifts in his chair with a small sigh. Karthysian architecture tended to be rigid and barely functional; his backside could certainly attest to that. "And your hair?"

"What about it?"

"It's very long."

"Observant of you, really." The Jedi Master's voice is incredibly dry.

"I'm just asking." Obi-Wan looks back down at his datapad.

"Why?" Qui-Gon's eyes are wary.

"What?"

"Why, I said. Why?"

Obi-Wan sets the datapad beside the cup of tea with a frown, "Well, why not?"

"You do not need to feel obliged to make polite conversation," the Jedi Master replies somewhat curtly, "I am not uncomfortable with silence."

"Neither am I."

Obi-Wan goes back to his datapad, and the scratch of pen on flimsy resumes. The night air grows cooler, but neither of them seems to notice. 

"...It was not always this long."

"No?" Obi-Wan looks up from the newsfeed with renewed interest. The latest Corellian fashion is not the most appealing topic he's read about before.

The Jedi Master is staring distantly at the ground, fiddling with the pen in his hand. His hair has fallen forward, framing his face like a veil.

"As a matter of fact, I do remember it being shorter. You had a Padawan then, didn't you? What was his name...Xander? Xan...Xanatos?"

Qui-Gon's eyes are closed. "Yes."

"Well, he must be a Knight by now."

"No." 

"What?"

"No. He isn't." Qui-Gon's eyes open and in them Obi-Wan sees an old wound. 

"I--"

"I must send a transmission to the Council," The Jedi Master says, standing up suddenly, "Goodnight, Knight Kenobi."

Qui-Gon disappears into his bedroom, closing the door behind him. 

 _Charming_ , Obi-Wan thinks, disgruntled, and drains the last of his tea.

 


	4. Journal Entry #2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you thank you for your Beta'ing expertise, Merry!

* * *

 

_Journal Entry #2_

_Undated_

 

Beloved:

 

It is almost too easy, this time.

You see, I was used to looking in to the eyes of strangers and finding you-- suddenly, unexpectedly, only in passing. You have always been an experience of walking past, of near misses, of just barely reaching. And then, inevitably, there are lives in which I never find you.

I hate those.

I was a craftsman on Alderaan, once. You came by one day, looking for an engagement ring.

"A ring, yes. For a perfect, beautiful woman," you say with a smile. Your hair is shaggy, falling into your eyes like you haven't had a proper cut in a while. "I've been saving up for months-- your work is the best, you know. She's always loved your jewelry."

"I'm flattered," I murmur, opening the case display.

Your eyes are brown, and you leave with a delicate band of diamond and silver. Sharp and bright, just like your smile. I turn back to my wares; I know I will not see you again. Not in this life.

Another time, you are a fortune-teller who sits at market and studies customers' footwear. I barely make enough money to feed myself, let alone enough money to afford your attention, but I lay a coin down anyway.

"You are destined to carry a great burden," you murmur, studying my hand. I wonder if you can even read my future amidst the mess of calluses on my palm. This life has not been an easy one; I work odd jobs for a living, trading heavy labor for some food, some shelter. I share a flat with a few other workers; among the five of us, we make do. 

"Yes," you frown slightly, "you carry a great burden, but then, you are a great man."

I take one look at your dark eyes, your gaudy striped dress, and I laugh.

"Not much of a fortune-teller, are you?" I tease, gesturing to my uniform. Today I am working for Coruscant's Municipal Waste Management.

You wave me away with a laugh, occupied with another customer who is captivated by your long dark hair, your delicate frame. I go back to picking up garbage from the streets.

I come back to you every week, until I don't.

I spend too much money on your readings to be able to afford a vaccination when the plague sweeps the city. My last moments are spent thinking of you as I lie on the floor of the small hovel I called home. My friends will come back to find my fevered body cool on the ground. I don't mind though-- I hear you survived.

It is almost too easy, this time.

You see, I was used to the waiting, the wondering. I was used to the maybe, the perhaps, the  _almost_ of us. As far back as I can remember, you are never just  _there_. I have to find you. I have to find you and sometimes I never do. You nearly always look different, after all. Your voice is never the same, you like different pastries, your hands no longer know the shape of mine. 

I love that. I love relearning you, every time.

Even if it was just a glimpse of you, I was happy knowing that you were happy. I was happy even knowing that you would never know me; that you would forget my name in a day's time. I was happy knowing that you were chasing after your purpose in life, that you were successful; that you were the same bright, bold, heartbreakingly beautiful being that you have always been.

You have been my enemy only once, you know. And that, of course, was my own doing.

I am relieved you do not remember that life. I hope you never do.

This time, though...this time, things have changed.

We are here again. We are Jedi. We have the same names, the same faces, the same home we did before. But it is not like last time, beloved; we are in another world entirely. A world where I, having been off-planet for a year-long mission, never took you as my Padawan learner, never even saw you until you were already chosen. A world where you, having heard of me only in reverent whispers and half-false tales, have never truly known me. A world without Bandomeer, without Naboo, without any of what we did before.

A world without each other.

It feels as if we are beginning all over again. Qui-Gon Jinn and Obi-Wan Kenobi. Still, things have changed, beloved.

This time, after all,  _you_ came after  _me_.


	5. Awakening

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) My Beta, Merry_Amelie, is the very paragon of patience-- so many thanks to her. (Also, she writes a delicious Qui/Obi fic...you should check out her stuff, just saying!)
> 
> 2) Thank you for all of your wonderful comments/kudos, my friends! They are very encouraging!

* * *

 

_"Don't do this. Please, don't do this."_

_"I knew you would find me."_

_"I have given you everything..."  
_

_"No. You_ took  _everything. And now I'm going to take it back."_

_"Xan, no. NO!"_

Obi-Wan wakes with a start, covered in sweat and breathing hard.

He does not sleep for a long time afterward.

 

*********

"Master Kenobi?"

"Not a Master," he answers automatically, softening his response with a smile, "merely a Knight."

It is the King's advisor; the telltale purple markings on the being's face are distinctive, unique to every Karthysian. The people of Karthys are humanoid; tall with fawn-colored skin and large black eyes. 

"Sh'aour," Obi-Wan greets the being with a bow, "I hope you're well this evening?"

Obi-Wan had been wandering the halls of the empty palace, while the others were attending a dinner banquet thrown by the interim monarch. Qui-Gon had watched him go with dark, inscrutable eyes.

"I am." Sh'aour has pinned their hair atop their head. "Are you not pleased with the banquet, Knight Kenobi?"

"Just Obi-Wan is fine. And your banquet is lovely, as always. I've just been enjoying the silence." The young Knight gestures for the being to join him and they do, falling into step with his loping strides with their usual grace and aplomb.

"You haven't changed, I see."

Obi-Wan looks up curiously. "I'm sorry?"

"The last time you were here, you took every opportunity to be on your own."

The young Knight pauses to open the door to the courtyard. "The last time I was here? I've never visited your home planet before, I'm afraid."

"Truly? I was certain I recognized you..."

Obi-Wan shakes his head. "Perhaps it was another Jedi. Unless I have a doppelganger running around, in which case, do let me know next time you see him. I'd like to take him out for drinks."

They laugh. "Of course. Either way, Obi-Wan, I am seldom wrong. A bright spirit like yours is hard to forget."

Obi-Wan smiles. "You honor me."

"No more than you deserve."

 

*********

_Who are you...do you know?_

_Who am I? Have you been waiting for me?_

_It's been a long time, you know..._

_"OBI-WAN!"_

 

*********

 

"Kenobi."

"Jinn."

They greet each other shortly, as they have for the past five mornings. Obi-Wan is washed, dressed, and ready for the day. The stubble on his face itches a bit-- he's been growing out his beard since he arrived. Qui-Gon is shirtless, wearing nothing but his sleep pants, and Obi-Wan deliberately does  _not_ stare at the muscled planes of the man's stomach, the long, rangy length of him as he folds himself into a chair. (Although, why that thought even occurs to him is not something he examines until much later). The Jedi Master, Obi-Wan has noticed, likes to lounge about in his sleep clothes until the last possible minute.

"Caf today?"

"Mmph." Qui-Gon takes a swig from his mug.

Obi-Wan looks at him over the stove. "Were you awake late? Would you like me to take over mediations?"

"That won't be necessary."

"As you like." Obi-Wan brings their breakfast to the table, laying out a variety of fruits, rolls, and a small bowl of eggs.

Over the past few days, Qui-Gon had prepared breakfast (or at least, something resembling the meal). Most of his creations had consisted of lumpy oatmeal or ration bars. Obi-Wan had found that the Jedi Master was very much a "I found some roots in the forest-- What do you mean the milk's spoiled?" kind of man. The Jedi Master ate little in their quarters. When Obi-Wan had arrived, there had barely been any food in their kitchen area and he'd had to ask a service droid for a restock.

_"I don't know how you survived it," he'd said cheerfully, putting things away in their various nooks, "I'd have simply starved."_

_The Jedi Master only shrugged and went back to nibbling on the burnt toast he'd made himself._

In fact, Qui-Gon Jinn didn't seem to eat much of anything when he prepared a meal, picking at his portion until Obi-Wan was finished with his. Each time the Karthysians hosted a mid-meal or dinner banquet, though, Qui-Gon ate heartily. Since then, Obi-Wan had resolved to make all the meals himself.

"What is this?" the Jedi Master stares at the food in almost comic disbelief.

"Breakfast," the young Knight lays a plate in front of the older man, "A cup of caf isn't going to hold you over until mid-meal." Obi-Wan fights back a grin as Qui-Gon gingerly picks up a roll between two fingers, "I haven't poisoned it. The Council wouldn't have sent me to protect you if they knew you'd die of salmonella."

"Thank the Force for small favors." The older man takes a bite of his roll.

 _Finally,_ Obi-Wan thinks,  _I've done something right._

"Our hosts are delightful," Obi-Wan ventures, joining the other man at the table.

Qui-Gon grunts noncommittally.

"Sh'aour seems familiar with you. You've been here before?" He tries hard to sound casual.

The Karthysian never failed to greet Master Jinn with the traditional forehead touch that spoke of affection, and the two had talked non-stop during the mediation's intersession. Seeing how Sh'aour's eyes had sparkled when they spoke to the Jedi Master, how Qui-Gon had laughed ( _laughed!_ ) at something they had said was nothing less than a shock to Obi-Wan. It was clear from the outset that they were close friends, perhaps even lovers. Somehow, the revelation made Obi-Wan feel lonely. He'd had lovers before, of course, but hadn't had that kind of companionship in a while.

"A few times, yes. Sh'aour first saw me when I was a young Knight. They were merely a youth, then, and have barely passed into adulthood now."

Obi-Wan nods and talks around the fruit in his mouth. "Incredible how long they live, isn't it? If the Karthysians were green, I might have thought Master Yoda was one of them."

Qui-Gon snorts. "Unfortunately, the mystery of what Yoda is remains unsolved. The Karthysians are almost as perceptive as he is, at any rate. It is hard to negotiate at times, without knowing how much they know about  _me_."

"There is that," Obi-Wan agrees. "For a moment there I almost thought Sh'aour could see right through me...talked about my spirit being memorable, or something. Any idea what that's about?"

"Not at all." The reply is calm, studied.

Obi-Wan squints at his companion from across the table, chewing thoughtfully on the gillyfruit that was native to Karthys.

Qui-Gon finishes the last bite of eggs and stands. "Let us ready ourselves for another mediation session. Perhaps today will be the day that the monarchy and the Separatists come to an agreement."

Obi-Wan watches the Jedi Master disappear into his room. Even if it hadn't become blindingly apparent that his companion disappeared into his rooms when he didn't want to talk, Obi-Wan would have known something was off about the Jedi Master's response. Instinct told him that Qui-Gon was lying; but why and about what, he could not be certain.

 

*********

He tries hard to tell himself he isn't snooping.

Qui-Gon left earlier that evening, something about a city expedition with Sh'aour.

_"I sent you a preliminary draft of the report. Please read it through and sign it before sending it to the Council."_

_"Going somewhere?" Obi-Wan raises and eyebrow at Qui-Gon's civilian attire, at the hair he's left loose and flowing down his back._

_"Out," the Jedi Master says shortly, clipping his lightsaber to his belt. "I will likely be back late. Sh'aour is taking me to see the city."_

_"Ah. Have fun."_

Obi-Wan scans the list on his datapad, finds the name he wants, and enters the passcode for the files.

Xanatos du Crion.

Upon earning their Knighthood, all Jedi received public access codes for records stored on any Temple's database, including their own training records, which were sealed to them until that time. Generally, they were used to access the public records of potential Padawans or mission partners. Masters received a higher authorization code that could access both public and private records, while Council members held all-access authorization. Xanatos' file was no longer active, so Obi-Wan had performed some fancy footwork to access the "death files"-- the files and records of all the Jedi that had passed away, left the Order, or fallen to the Darkness.

Xanantos' public records were nothing out of the ordinary; they took stock of his physical characteristics, home world, date of birth/date of death, his coursework and grades, teacher assessments, preferred 'saber style, missions taken, and mission results.

 _Interesting_ , Obi-Wan thinks as he scrolls through the files,  _He died the same year I was born._

He tries halfheartedly to access the fallen Jedi's private files, and is rewarded with a large error statement that reads: PRIVATE FILES: AUTHORIZATION DENIED.

No surprises there.

Qui-Gon Jinn, however, is a different story. 

ALL FILES: AUTHORIZATION DENIED.

He's never seen that error statement before.

ALL FILES: AUTHORIZATION DENIED.

"Impossible." Obi-Wan sits back in his seat. How could all of the man's records have restricted access? Who had access? How in the world did the man find mission partners?

A small beep comes from the corner of the room. _The comm station? At this hour?_

There are several new messages, one from his Master on Coruscant and two for Master Jinn. The content of the messages is hidden until a personal passcode is entered, but the headings are still visible.

To: RepublicSpace/Karthys/CityPalace/Room144/Kenobi, Knight  
From: RepublicSpace/Coruscant/JediTemple/Room451/U'lln, Master  
Subject: You Drink Disgusting Tea

To: RepublicSpace/Karthys/CityPalace/Room144/Jinn, Master  
From: RepublicSpace/Coruscant/JediTemple/CouncilRoom/HighJediCouncil  
Subject: RE: Mission Pairing- Possible Replacements

To: RepublicSpace/Karthys/CityPalace/Room144/Jinn, Master  
From: RepublicSpace/Coruscant/JediTemple/Archives/Syris, CommTech  
Subject: ENCRYPTED FILES ALERT: Access Attempted-- Permission Y/N?

Qui-Gon wanted to replace him. A sudden spike of anger pierces Obi-Wan's core. The Jedi Master had gone above his head to the Council (the  _Council!_ ) rather than discuss the matter with him. He'd deferred to Qui-Gon's judgment during negotiations, he'd taken on the brunt of the work outside of mediations, he'd given Jinn the respect and privacy he deserved as a Jedi Master...they had even managed to be civil to each other for the past few days! What had gone wrong?

Furious, Obi-Wan punches in his personal access code to read the message from U'lln.

*****

_Obi-Wannie,_

_Back on Coruscant after the mission to Bespin. All is well here-- the Temple is quiet without your usual chatter and smiles. Your fellow Knights and I miss you. (Must be growing sentimental in my old age!) You've been away quite a bit since your Knighting, my former Padawan. Avoiding your old Master, perhaps? Joking, of course, but you might be right to avoid my cooking. By the way, I used your quarters to experiment with Alderaanian nerf casserole the other day -- will replace your fire extinguisher and garbage disposal at the first possible moment. Your ceiling has already been re-painted, so there's that. (What? You GAVE me your keycode, kiddo! I can almost hear the exasperation all the way from Karthys...what sweet, sweet music to my ears...)_

_Speaking of which, how's the mission going? Are you whipping poor Master Jinn into shape? I'm sure he'll be fit to take a seat on the Council by the time you're done with him...although I did hear Mace cursing the "Bantha-stubborn irritation of a Jedi" in the refectory this morning. I imagine he hasn't been playing nice in the sandbox with you, but I'm sure you can handle it as you handle all things. (With the famed 'Kenobi ire' -- I jest! I jest!)_

_Anyway, your former post is being adequately filled by Master Chish and his Padawan, in case you wanted to know. I'll be grounded at the Temple for the next few months in order to teach some diplomacy classes. Unfortunately, I drew the short straw and will also be teaching 'Advanced Humanoid Physiology'. Can't wait to traumatize the Padawans when we get to sexual reproduction. (You know that always brings me great joy.)_

_Your Favorite Master,_

_U'lln_

_P.S. The tea you drink really is disgusting. Have you no taste? Don't you keep any honey in your quarters?? Barbaric. I taught you better._

*****

By the end of the transmission, Obi-Wan almost feels centered. Master U'lln's letter envelopes him like a warm hug, carrying with it all the fondness and deep friendship that had developed between them over the course of their Master-apprentice relationship. Obi-Wan smiles faintly and reaches out to the old training bond that lies between them. Training bonds were broken upon Knighting, but they never fully disappeared. Faint and unused, Obi-Wan nevertheless sends a wave of affection and gratefulness down those few leftover strands, knowing that U'lln will probably never receive it.

His anger has faded to mere irritation. Feeling determined, he comms the exasperating Jedi Master he has to deal with on this mission.

"Jinn here."

Obi-Wan can hear crowds in the background; loud chatter, laughter, and the sound of pulsing music. They must be dining at one of the downtown clubs. For some reason, the realization annoys Obi-Wan further.

"Kenobi here. Nothing urgent. When you get back we need to talk."

"What about?"

"We'll discuss it when you're back."

"Kenobi, you're not my-- "

BOOM.

Obi-Wan starts, hearing sudden panic from Qui-Gon's side of the commlink. The loud explosion is followed by screams and hysterical shouting.

"Jinn? Jinn? Are you still there?"

Whatever had happened during the explosion had clearly damaged the device; the connection fizzles out seconds later. Outside their quarters, the palace corridors suddenly fill with murmuring voices and gasps.

"...so loud, maybe a KarSec raid..."

"...downtown sector, must have been..."

"...injured? Have we heard from..."

Mere moments later, a grim-faced Knight Kenobi is on his way to the downtown sector on the fastest speeder he can find. 

 

 

 


	6. Journal Entry #3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) Merry, you are a magical human being and I thank you for your Beta'ing expertise.

* * *

 

_Journal Entry #3_

_43 BBY_

 

In the end, he died screaming.

And I have been the monster so many times, dear reader. Eventually, it becomes hard to tell the difference between nightmare and memory. (Because you  _will_ dream; and when you do, it will be a constant recitation of the things you swore you'd never become, but did anyway). My name was not always Qui-Gon Jinn, you see.

I cannot describe how difficult it is, to have lived a thousand lives and to know, intimately, that the list of your sins is too long to catalog.

He died screaming, and I know why.

I was not always  _good_ the way Obi-Wan was. (Whether this is a statement about the power of circumstance or a reflection of our inherent natures, I will never know). There were times when I let myself become bitter and twisted; lives where I killed without mercy; lives where I shattered fragile things simply for the pleasure of seeing them break; lives where I did horrid, unutterable things for vengeance, for money...for love.

(My greatest fear is that Obi-Wan will one day remember me, not as I am, but as I was, as I may yet be; a creature of darkness, angry and loathsome and ugly).

I did not have to watch the light die in his eyes, at least. (And I have done that so many times as well, dear reader. It never gets any easier.) Last time, by some twist of fate, I saw my lover in the eyes of my enemy. This time, all I saw was the face of a stranger, dissolving slowly into nothingness.

In the end, that is what he was: a stranger. Xanatos du Crion. Former brother, former Jedi, former friend. Gone. Devoured by a creature infinitely more cruel and insatiable. It is not the kind of betrayal you forget.

This is what it is like to lose a brother:

It will keep you up at night, staring at your ceiling, looking for the 'why' of him. You will find yourself flinching at the remnants of his presence in your life: his books scattered across the room, his clothing, dirtied, mixed in with your laundry. You will wonder if you were worthy of his friendship, and if your own impurities were the reason things ended the way they did. Your stubborn loyalty to the man he once was never fully disappears; sometimes, it is the only reason you can still think of him and smile. You will heal, eventually. But the scar tissue never fades. (You will always be afraid).

This is what it is like to lose a lover:

It will nearly kill you, this twice-punishment.

First, he will not remember you. (But you will appreciate this when the end comes). You are his teacher, his friend, his confidant, and you are content with that. It is not until he grows older that you recognize the wrongness of him; this is the creature you have always loved, yes, but he is changed in this life. There is something disharmonious in his balance, like his veins pump poison, not blood. But he tries, gods how he  _tries_ , like he remembers the brightness of what he once was; of what he was before. You love him despite the missing halo.

Second, he will betray you in this life. He will rip out your heart and laugh at the way you bleed. (It is not his fault, you think; if only you had taught him better, if only you had been less indulgent, if only his father hadn't planted venom in his head...) And it is not your bleeding heart that almost kills you; it is knowing what he could have been, what he was, that causes months of sleeplessness unless forced by pill. (This isn't how it was supposed to be, you think; this being that you love has never hurt you like this before. Then you wonder if this is punishment for every single time you became the monster that stalked his dreams. He may never remember it, but  _you_ will).

Even in your nightmares you will think about it; is there something about that cursed body, that cursed name that corrupts even the brightest of souls? Or is this karma, for all the times you have let that cursed body, that cursed name down? I have never been able to save Xanatos. 

_[This will haunt him until his dying day; he doesn't know it, but no matter how many lives they live together, Qui-Gon Jinn will never be able to save Xanatos]._

The worst part about this, dear reader, are those times when I cannot tell the difference between Xanatos himself and the life where my lover wore his skin...

Fourteen years ago, Xanatos died screaming, and I know why:

Sometimes, I think he remembers.


	7. Doubt/Bodies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan almost have an important conversation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) As always, thank you Merry for being an incredible Beta! Your support is much appreciated.

* * *

 

Obi-Wan doesn't have to utter a word when he reaches the site of the bombing. One look at the expression on his face, the brown and cream of his robes, and KarSec waves him through the barricades without question. Pressing crowds surround the scene of destruction, eerily silent amidst the shouts of KarSec's Tactical Rescue Team. 

Scraps of metal and duracrete lay scattered on the ground in heaps; the air is filled with sediment and gray ash. Half of the nightclub -- "The Jive" -- has been reduced to rubble. The other half teeters precariously, small fires raging within the exposed skeleton of the building. 

He will never get used to scenes like this, but it is the smell that throws him off balance for a moment; the scent of burning rubber and flesh is disturbingly familiar.

_"I HATE YOU!"_

Obi-Wan shudders as the scream passes through his body. Had someone in the crowd thrown the thought into the Force, or...no. No one here resonated with despair or anger powerful enough to bypass his mental barriers that way. It is only then that he realizes the scream had been silent; something he alone had heard.

Rescue crews are still pulling bodies from the wreckage; Obi-Wan, casting out his Force sense, fights to keep his shields low enough to find Qui-Gon, struggling against the panicked fear and pain he feels in the Force. He grits his teeth as a wail pierces the air; somewhere, someone is cradling the body of a relative, a friend, a lover. He wants to stop and help; he wants to comfort the grieving and do what he can for the wounded, but he cannot. That is not his mission objective. KarSec has the recovery process well in hand, he tells himself.

It does not reassure him as he enters the hollowed-out shell of the building.

Carefully stepping through debris, Obi-Wan finds what he is looking for in the corner of the building where the bar would have been. Half-hidden beneath a pile of timber and plastisteel are the remains of a miniature pressure bomb.

"Karking bastards," Obi-Wan curses under his breath, nudging aside the still-hot debris for a closer look. The Separatist insignia is stamped on the remaining bits of the device.

"Jedi..." A hoarse voice comes from behind him.

Obi-Wan whirls, lightsaber raised in an instant, but it is only a KarSec officer. The man's Force signature roils with exhaustion.

"The King's advisor says your colleague went further downtown. Chasing someone."

"Sh'aour! How are they?"

"Well enough. Lucky. Fractured leg, superficial wounds. They're being taken to the public medbay under KarSec's protection."

Obi-Wan nods, allowing a small amount of relief to thread through his chest. "And the situation?"

"Under control. As much as it can be." The man sighs. "We're fine here."

 _We're fine here._ Obi-Wan has never heard such a bald-faced lie in his life, but he leaves anyway, slamming his shields back into place, shutting out the last echoing screams of the dying.

*********

 

"We weren't after you, Jedi. You have no right to interfere."

The Karthysian had led him on a chase all the way to an abandoned warehouse somewhere in the market district. This is Separatist territory, Qui-Gon knows. There is no telling who was lurking about, who had seen them enter this place. He is certain he hears noises somewhere behind them...

"I had every right," the Jedi Master answers calmly, lightsaber at the ready. "You have endangered not only your cause, but the very people you champion."

The Karthysian seems to falter slightly, their blaster-hand wavering. "How  _dare_ you?! Everything I have done has been for them! Lord Rythorn was a cancer. He would have spread his disgusting prejudices to the rest of the parliament and where would we be then? Sowing his wheat and mining his gold for the rest of our lives!"

"Killing him was not the only way to show your dissent."

"You don't know anything about it. You sit up there in the palace, making nice with the monarch and his advisors while we--"

"Put the blaster down."

"-- these horrid conditions. We cannot own property, only work it. We sleep in doorways at night while you entertain yourselves downtown. Do you know how many of my brothers and sisters are forced to sleep with men like you to make a living? Do you have any idea?"

"Put the blaster down and we will talk. You can tell me all about it. I'll listen. I give you my word."

"And if I don't, Jedi?" they sneer, holding a blaster in one hand, a pressure bomb in the other. "What are you going to do? Kill me and go back to kissing up to the monarchy?"

"I will not kill you."

"No?" they laugh. "That's a mistake, Jedi."

All at once, they lever their blaster at him, not recognizing the sound of an igniting 'saber from behind them until their wrist erupts into white-hot pain. They drop the weapon with a scream, agony blurring out their vision as they fall to the floor. Somehow, their pain-soaked brain recognizes that their hand-- and the pressure bomb it had been holding -- is gone.

Meanwhile, Qui-Gon watches in disbelief as Obi-Wan snatches the bomb from the severed hand and deactivates it. The young Knight's face has settled into hard lines, his sudden appearance bringing with it all the energy that accompanies battle lust. The Jedi Master kneels and cradles the whimpering Karthysian's head in his hands. 

"Sleep," he whispers, sending the being into blessed nothingness.

"Are you hurt?" Obi-Wan demands, harsh tone at odds with the relief in his eyes.

"No," Qui-Gon answers quietly, hauling the Karthysian over his shoulder with unconscious grace. "Are you?" Qui-Gon no longer feels like he knows the man he's seeing. (But what was it to know someone anyway? Had he ever...?)

"Clean blaster-hole. Went right through my shoulder. That's all."

"Come, we'll hand them over to KarSec and bring you to the medbay."

"It's fine."

"Kenobi," Qui-Gon says with exaggerated patience, "you need to see a healer."

The harshness in the young Knight's face melts into something like apprehension. "I don't...that is, I mean. I don't like medbays," he stutters, not meeting the Master's eyes. "I always seem to end up in one and...they make me tired. Feeling the beings around me, and the smell, I..."

There is a short silence.

"Alright," Qui-Gon says gently, more gently than he had ever said anything in this life, "I'll do it myself."

They make their way out of the warehouse, dodging the bodies of several Karthysians on the way out. Qui-Gon glances at his companion searchingly.

"Separatists," Obi-Wan answers the unspoken question, "alive, just unconscious. I comm'd KarSec already."

"Oh. Kenobi--"

"They were going to sneak around and flank you."

"Yes, I--"

"And if they hadn't killed you outright, this one would have blown you to pieces."

"Kenobi--"

"And I know you could have handled it, but I'm here to look out for you, and you wouldn't let me help with negotiations so I--"

"Obi-Wan!" Qui-Gon interrupts, shifting the Karthysian's body to his other shoulder. "Thank you."

The young Knight blinks. "You're welcome."

The KarSec team that Obi-Wan had comm'd comes into view. They take the unconscious Karthysian and lead the Jedi back to ground zero to aid the recovery process.

*********

 

"Done," Qui-Gon announces, sitting back on his haunches. "How does it feel?"

Obi-Wan raises his arm experimentally, rolling his shoulder. "Feels fine. Thank you."

Qui-Gon nods, watching him with inscrutable eyes.

"You have a talent for it," Obi-Wan continues, leaning forward to escape the questing blue gaze, grabbing his tunics off the floor.

"For what?"

"This. Healing."

Obi-Wan nearly flinches as a warm hand touches his non-injured shoulder, gently pushing him around. The young Knight acquiesces, looking over his shoulder in confusion. What was...

Ah. His tattoo.

Qui-Gon rests his fingertips at the middle of Obi-Wan's spine; softly, carefully, as if touching a frightened animal. Obi-Wan shivers, feeling goosebumps run up his back. He has not been touched like that in a long time, growing used to the clashing of limbs in combat, the feel of an enemy's nails digging into his skin, the crude violence of desperate men. When the fingers fall away, he is both confused and relieved.

"There is no Darkness that does not submit to the Light," Obi-Wan recites, coming back to himself. The words were tattooed down his spine in the vertical alphabet of his home planet, bold red surrounded by smaller gold ornamentation. It was not uncommon for a Jedi to mark their skin in such a way after Knighting.

"I can read it," Qui-Gon says, voice curiously small. "It's from the treatise by Jedi philosopher Khai'frell."

"Mmm," Obi-Wan hums in agreement, "my favorite philosopher. The passage has always held special meaning for me."

"Why here?"

"What?"

"Why ink it here?"

Obi-Wan lets out a slow breath. The question is incredibly personal. He doesn't need to answer, but he wants to. "This phrase has always kept me strong and straight. Even when I felt I couldn't stand."

"I see." The Jedi Master's voice is so very quiet.

The young Knight twists around. "Qui-Gon?" The name feels strange on his tongue, but only because he has never spoken it aloud.

"Obi-Wan," the Jedi Master exhales hard, "do you...do you believe in past lives?"

For an absurd moment, Obi-Wan's mouth hangs open. Past lives? The kind of nonsense fortune-tellers spoke about, the stuff of fairy tales...past lives? 

A bark of laughter erupts from the Jedi Master's lips; he wipes a hand across his eyes and gets to his feet unsteadily. "Nevermind, just a question. Gods, I...just a question."

"Qui-Gon--"

"I'll shower first. The bacta and synthskin on your shoulder need time to set." Qui-Gon pulls his tunics over his head just as Obi-Wan tugs his on.

Obi-Wan hesitates at the clear dismissal, watching the Jedi Master's back as he ties his hair up, revealing a strange birthmark over his spine, just between the base of his ribs. Qui-Gon turns, and Obi-Wan realizes that the birthmark on the man's abdomen lines up perfectly with the one on his back.

"Staring is abominably rude, you know."

"I, ah, I'm sorry. Your birthmark, it just..." Obi-Wan trails off with a frown. There is something nudging him, something in the back of his mind, screaming 'Look'!

"It just what?"

"It just..." Obi-Wan shrugs helplessly, a blush burning its way across his face, "it looks like a lightsaber wound, that's all."

Qui-Gon stills, eyes wary. "Ah, yes, it...it rather does."

They stand there for a few more awkward moments. 

"If you don't mind...?" Qui-Gon gestures vaguely to the sonics.

Obi-Wan steps back, breaking the spell of those incredible blue eyes. "Oh, ah, of course. I-- sorry!"

He leaves in a hurry, inexplicably feeling like he has just missed something important, something that he once knew for certain.

*********

 

Obi-Wan wakes up exhausted, feeling like he's been run over by a herd of wild banthas. He looks into the mirror and notices that something is missing. If he squints hard enough he can almost picture it; shouldn't his hair be lighter, a bit longer? He never had a beard before-- Why does he have one now? Obi-Wan rubs the sleep from his eyes and glares at his reflection.  _Stupid. Knock it off, Kenobi._

He finishes getting ready, Qui-Gon's question from the night before replaying in his head.

_Do you believe in past lives?_

_Do you believe in past lives?_

_"You carry a great burden..."_

_Do you...?_

*********

 

"Kenobi."

"Jinn. Sleep well?"

"Mmph. You?"

"Yes, thank you. Pass the tea?"

"Here. Did you look over the--"

"-- I'm not certain that--"

"Pardon?"

"It's just...I've never thought about it. Past lives. We die and we pass into the Force, but who knows what happens after? The Council would say that it isn't our place to know."

"Perhaps," Qui-Gon replies blandly, sipping his tea, "it is healthy to question the Council once in a while."

"I imagine you bring the counselors great joy with your strict adherence to the Code."

Qui-Gon's eyes twinkle from behind his mug. "I have never let adherence to the Code get in the way of my being a Jedi."

"Unsurprising, given that the mere mention of your name gives Master Windu twitches."

"Well. You aren't wrong."

Obi-Wan laughs.

*****

 


	8. Journal Entry #4

* * *

 

_Journal Entry #4_

_Undated_

 

I was a wise man, once. A philosopher, a reader of lost texts, speaker of ancient tongues, a prophet. I didn't have one name, I had many. I was He-Who-Pulled-Down-the-Sky, the Old Man, the Storyteller, the Lorekeeper. I saw the future in the flight of eagles, could pull a man's fate from the bones of cattle, coax the river's secrets from its ebb and flow.

There was a fable on my home planet, back then. One of those superstitions that are passed down from generation to generation, the one that everybody seems to know and believe in, the one they recite to their children at bedtime. In that time, that place, we believed in reincarnation. (They would ask me to recite my lives to them, one by one. By the time they were asleep, I had barely begun. Appropriate, isn't it, that a wise man would be the only one to remember who he had been before?)

Legend said that a being's manner of death would mark them in the next life.

I, of course, didn't believe this to be true, even then. A woman dies peacefully in her sleep, and in the next life she bears a mark on her face. This does not mean anything...does it?

It was only a hypothesis until this life, dear reader, the one I am living now. I didn't pay attention to the marks of the bodies I was born into until this life, you see. But I had noticed something about Xanatos...no matter what body he wore, he always bore a birthmark like a burn-- large and irregular and harsh.

Beings who suffer a violent death, I believe, are born into the next life with traces of it on their skin.

This isn't something you have considered before, is it?

Perhaps you thought that these things were genetic; that your mother and father's families passed them to you, distinct markers of lineage, of kin, of belonging. But what if they aren't, dear reader? What if they mark every place your body was ever harmed? What if the large expanse of brown skin across your back was a reminder of what had happened before? A mark of something so traumatic to your being that your body would not be able to erase it for several lifetimes?

I have never had marks on my skin like these, not before my first life as a Jedi. Not before Naboo.

It led me to wonder how much control our souls have over the flesh we inhabit in the next life. If our bodies carry the trauma of a previous life, what else do they carry? What other memories manifest themselves in our blood, our skills, our skin?

And then I remembered Obi-Wan. 

He is no smaller or taller than he has been in any other life; somehow I think this body, the one he has now, fits him best.

He is a strong man of average height, with wrists that almost look too delicate to wield a 'saber...or at least, that is what the Training Master at the Temple first thought of him.

_"I just don't understand," Master Firig Uhana said in frustration. "The boy is barely nine, but he knows material far beyond his age group. His grasp of the Force is incredible for his age! There is nothing I can put in front of him that he will not master. I just don't understand it, Jinn!"_

_The Jedi Masters are standing on the sidelines of the training salle, watching young Obi-Wan Kenobi duel two of his fellow age-mates. He should have been overwhelmed, outnumbered, but the young Initiate blocks and parries as if he were born knowing how to do so, born with an intimate understanding of tactics and strategies and the way people moved in combat. The boy crackled with a barely contained energy, fast and hard and flowing like water._

_"He is quite advanced for his age-group," Qui-Gon murmurs in agreement._

_Master Firig shakes his head. "It's like he's done it before, Jinn...like he's already learned it."_

And he had, of course. But Master Firig could not have known that. No being outside of the Council and myself know that. 

When I first remembered, it was hard to keep silent. To know so much when others do not know the same things is maddening. Since then, however, I have learned that discretion is the better part of valor. (I spent most of that life jailed, and then left adrift, considered mad by all who knew me.)

I thought that this mission would be a similar torture, dear reader. But lately I have found myself hoping...daring to imagine that Obi-Wan is waking up.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear readers,
> 
> Just wanted to give you all a quick and very grateful thank you, since I feel that I don't say it often enough. Your comments, kudos, bookmarks, and support mean the world to me-- you are the reason I write. (That and a strange compulsion to record angst&smut for posterity.) Sending all my love!
> 
> O.E.


	9. Revelations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) Thank you, as always, to the glorious Merry_Amelie for her Beta-ing expertise!
> 
> 2) Dear Readers: If any of you are interested, you guys have been leaving really good questions in the comments section-- go read some & check out your fellow AO3ers brilliance!

* * *

 

"-- kriffing hell."

Obi-Wan stomps into the common room of their quarters, brushing past a confused Jedi Master in order to overturn the pillows on every sitting surface in the room. It is the day before the coronation, and things are not starting off well. Ignoring the other man, the young Knight yanks open drawers and peers into cabinets, growing more and more agitated by the moment.

"Kenobi," Qui-Gon asks cautiously, "what are you doing?"

"It's my commlink," Obi-Wan growls, moving around the older man to search the corners of the room. "I can't find it. If I don't have it for the coronation, there's no way we can keep in touch if something happens. I put the bloody thing on my bedside table last night and I don't see how it could have disappeared unless it suddenly grew legs and--"

"Obi-Wan." A warm hand rests on his shoulder. "Come sit with me."

"Jinn, I don't have time for--"

"Sit with me." The voice of the Master allows for no disobedience. 

They sit in their usual places across from each other at the breakfast table. Obi-Wan seethes in silence, lips pinched, arms crossed, while Qui-Gon sits calmly, composed, looking at his companion with something Obi-Wan doesn't want to acknowledge as pity. The young Knight glares, but the Jedi Master meets his eyes with uncanny understanding.

"Give me your hands."

"Jinn--"

"Obi-Wan."

"Very well," The young Knight snaps.

Obi-Wan gingerly places his hands in Qui-Gon's palms. The Master's fingers are rough and callused from a lifetime of lightsaber training. A small scar marks the skin across the back of his left hand. Besides that one imperfection, the Master's hands are unmarred. Obi-Wan is surprised; a Jedi's hands are always the first things to scar. Inexplicably, he blushes.

Qui-Gon, either ignoring or oblivious to Obi-Wan's reaction, merely closes his eyes.

"Breathe deeply, Obi-Wan. In for a seven count, and out for another."

"Qui-Gon--"

"Breathe with me."

It occurs to Obi-Wan that this is an exercise most commonly performed by younglings who have not yet learned to sink into meditation. Perhaps he should be offended; after all, this is the same Qui-Gon Jinn who thought him beneath his notice for the majority of his life, the same Qui-Gon Jinn who thinks (thought? For what is this slow understanding, now...?) that Obi-Wan was not enough. Never enough. Who left Obi-Wan unwanted. Uncertain. Undeserving.

Even as those thoughts wander through his head, Obi-Wan slowly breathes in and expands his awareness in the Force. Exhaling, Obi-Wan releases his frustration, the tension that has been building since the beginning of the mission. Reaching out, he has to admit that Qui-Gon's presence in the Force is gentle, welcoming even. But he can sense something unbalanced there all the same; something hollow and lonely, like the graying strands of the Jedi Master's hair. Obi-Wan surreptitiously moves closer, wondering at the--

_-Force-strong heartbeat, deep-love lost-_

\-- before the Jedi Master's startlingly bright Force signature pulls away. The hands disappear from his grasp, and Obi-Wan opens his eyes.

"I often find that breathing meditations are the most effective in dispersing feelings of frustration," Qui-Gon says calmly, hands folded in his lap. Consummate teacher.

There is a short silence. The room around them is very still, waiting.

"I apologize for my behavior this morning," Obi-Wan says softly, "I haven't been sleeping well, and I have a lot on my mind. The commlink was the straw that broke the camel's back, so to speak."

Qui-Gon looks at the bruised-looking skin beneath the young man's eyes, the lines of exhaustion on the normally carefree face, and clenches his hands together in an effort to keep them from reaching out, from touching what had never belonged to them.

"I would be willing...that is, if you would like, I could..."

"...Yes?"

"I understand that I am not your Master," Qui-Gon continues hesitantly, "and that my...perhaps I have been overly harsh, in the past. However, our transport to the Temple will be long, and you need rest. I would be willing to guard your sleep for the duration."

Obi-Wan stares, looking for all the world like a deer having caught the scent of a predator.

"If you are not comfortable, of course I--"

"I accept."

"You...what?"

"I accept, Qui-Gon."

"Oh. That's...you do?"

"I do," Obi-Wan replies with a quiet gratitude, "thank you."

The Jedi Master nods and rises from his seat. He moves as if to walk away, but hesitates. (The man is incredibly graceful, Obi-Wan thinks in a daze, watching the long limbs move in perfect harmony. How could a man so tall, so reserved in his being, move so sensually? As if every gesture, every step were a dance he performed every day, a daily ritual in affirmation of the life contained in that body...)

"Obi-Wan?" The Jedi Master reaches into the fruit bowl on the table and extracts a small device from among the gillyfruit. The missing commlink. "It was right here, all along."

 

*********

The coronation is undemanding; short and sweet, and that was just how Obi-Wan liked them.

It is like most other coronations, full of the trappings of state; heavy, expensive materials embroidered with gold and jewels, formal greetings and ritual speeches, watchful crowds beaming up at their new ruler with kohl-rimmed eyes, brimming with hope and mindful of the promises they had been given. And yet, something is not quite right.

Obi-Wan's flicker from face to face in the crowd, shifting his weight from one foot to another-- an innocuous movement to all but those who knew him best. His hair has been dusted with gold powder again, he can feel it slipping down his skull and onto his cloak. He and Qui-Gon stand on either side of the new monarch, symbolizing the Order's support for the new King. The Jedi Master's solid form out of the corner of his eye only increases his agitation.

All things considered, it had been a _very_ agitating mission thus far. But that wasn't what was making him so...itchy.

Something was wrong here.

Obi-Wan forces himself to take in slow, deep breaths, valiantly ignoring the hum in his head that called for action, action of any kind, for something other than _this;_ standing beside a stranger, standing beside the wrong being, the wrong--

There. That was it.

The wrong being.

Obi-Wan's gaze snaps towards the monarch. The wrong being. That was why this felt so very wrong, because this had happened before. He had been at a coronation on Karthys before, where the monarch was crowned as Queen, where the standards had flown with green and silver rather than purple and red, where the crowd had been angrier, more sullen, when he had been younger, when Qui-Gon had been--

 A loud cheer swells from the crowd and Obi-Wan inhales sharply, feeling as if he has been punched in the gut. The noise of it all masks the young Knight's soft cry. The coronation has ended. Obi-Wan takes advantage of the wild celebration to close his eyes and gather the Force around him like a security blanket. Calming the confusion he feels is easy like this, watching the water-clear waves of the Force flow around him. Slow breaths, in and out.  _There is something wrong with me. What are all of these memories? Doesn't anyone else remember this? Why doesn't Qui-Gon...?_

The Jedi Master's gaze flickers his way, but Obi-Wan does not see it. He is busy trying to stymie the headache blooming at his temples.

"Obi-Wan."

The young Knight opens his eyes. Sh'aour stands before him, smiling in their usual quiet, dignified manner.

"Sh'aour!" Obi-Wan pushes his worries to the back of his mind, forcing a smile. The Karthysian adviser looks well. Their leg is clearly bandaged, but they look healthy and happy, recovered from their injuries.

"On behalf of the Karthysian State, I must offer you our sincere thanks," they say, bowing low, "Without you, Ser Jedi, our nation would be shattered by the beginnings of a civil war."

Obi-Wan feels Qui-Gon's presence behind him.

"It is we who are honored, Obi-Wan replies sincerely, "It is only with your trust and friendship that this peace was possible." He bows in return, feeling the older man mimic him.

All formalities aside, Sh'aour offers the pair a rare, brilliant smile.

"So, you will be leaving us and you will return to your Temple. You must be sure, Obi-Wan that Master Jinn does not continue to work himself so hard. We must hope that he will learn to share the burden. He is lucky to have a lover as competent as you by his side."

Obi-Wan starts violently at the word  _lover_ , accidentally elbowing Qui-Gon in the stomach. He turns quickly to apologize, feeling the telltale heat crawl up his neck, but the Jedi Master is frozen, staring at Sh'aour in shock. 

"We-- we aren't, ah, that's not entirely...we are partners for this mission, yes, but we--" Obi-Wan stammers inelegantly, desperately trying to correct the situation.

"SH'AOUR!" The screech is loud and hysterical. Obi-Wan only half registers the flustered Karthysian that bustles up to the young King's adviser. "WHAT did I hear you say to them? How  _dare_ you insinuate that-- these are honored  _guests,_ Sh'aour! How could you have said-- you read the  _file_ you incompetent-- we're so sorry, Ser Jedi, of all the impolite-- oh  _gods_ what have you  _done,_ Sh'aour!"

The older adviser grasps an unrepentant Sh'aour by the wrist, alternately babbling apologies and scolding her charge. 

Sh'aour looks at Obi-Wan, a strange expression coming over their face. Pulling away from their older adviser with the utmost dignity and grace one can in such a situation, they manage to whisper into Obi-Wan's ear.

_"You are lucky too, Obi-Wan. He has always had a 'thing' for redheads."_

The young Knight promptly chokes and turns bright red.

Qui-Gon for his part, clears his throat several times before suggesting that they leave soon. Obi-Wan mutters his agreement, trying hard not to think about how such an exit will be perceived, and they spend the rest of the coronation studiously avoiding each other's eyes.

*********

_Something is wrong._

_Something is wrong._

_Something is wrong with me..._

*********

"What did Sh'aour say to you?" the Jedi Master asks eventually, in the days leading up to their transport.

Obi-Wan takes a big bite and makes a show of chewing his vegetables. "Nothing. Nothing at all."

"Kenobi."

"They...were complimenting you?"

"Forgive me my disbelief, but you seem more unsure than I."

Obi-Wan winces at the sarcasm, but doesn't reply.

"Obi-Wan."

"Fine, fine," the young Knight shovels some more food into his mouth and hastily says the first thing that comes to mind. "They said that...that you are a good man. Fond of animals. Charitable, kind. Nice hair. That sort of thing."

"Nice hair?" Qui-Gon replies dubiously.

"You know," Obi-Wan gestures vaguely. "Silky, soft, pretty...all that nonsense."

"...Pretty."

"Pretty," Obi-Wan nods affirmatively, concentrating on cutting the meat on his plate. "Healthy hair is a biological trait said to be indicative of youth and sexual vitality among humanoids, after all."

"Youth and sexual vitality, I see..."

Obi-Wan stops eating and looks at his older counterpart warily. There is a gleam in the Jedi Master's eyes that he does not like.

"Obi-Wan," the older Jedi folds his hands placidly. "I don't suppose Sh'aour said anything more, did they?"

"Anything more?" Obi-Wan repeats uncertainly, "No, no, just that."

"They wouldn't have happened to mention anything else? Another body part, perchance?"

Obi-Wan's cheeks begin to flame. "Another...ah, no, they didn't."

"Oh, truly? They've always admired my hands, you know."

"Your...what? No. I mean, that is, it's all a matter of  _opinion,_ besides biological determiners--"

"It surprises me that it would be the hair, you see," Qui-Gon continues blithely, "since they have such a 'thing' for large...appendages."

The young Knight freezes, forkful of fish only halfway to his mouth. A small bead of sweat trickles down his back, and he notices that the Jedi Master looks a bit like he's holding in laughter.

A lot of it.

Obi-Wan drops his fork and stands in a hurry. "You...I need to sleep...very tired, and so...ah, goodnight!" Obi-Wan rushes from the room, leaving behind his half-eaten meal and Qui-Gon's teasing eyes.

It was new, that mischief. Obi-Wan isn't sure that he likes it.

(This, of course, is a lie. That's the problem.)

*********

They spend the next day apart, as they are both very busy. Qui-Gon spends the afternoon signing official paperwork and talking to various dignitaries. Obi-Wan spends the afternoon haphazardly packing and questioning his mental stability.

Qui-Gon spends the evening journaling in seclusion. Obi-Wan spends the evening accusing Temple healers of retrograde memory interference.

It is a long day, for both of them.

*********

Later, after long hours of tossing and turning, Obi-Wan has a dream.

He dreams that he is kissing Qui-Gon, greedily lifting the Jedi Master's tunics, reaching for the smooth flesh beneath.

It is startlingly vivid. When he wakes, he is bathed in sweat and breathing hard.

"Kenobi," he whispers into the dawn-lit room, "you absolute  _idiot_."

 

*****


	10. Journal Entry #5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [We have hit the midway point, dear readers!]

* * *

 

_Journal Entry #5_

_Undated_

 

Beloved:

 

Something is not right here.

I have found myself waking from strange dreams, entranced by odd flickers of prescience during the day. You, consumed by your own struggles, have not noticed. (And you cannot think that I do not see it, the wounded animal in you that is scrabbling at the edge of some cliff, searching for understanding. I have been there, too, beloved. I have felt your pain.) Throughout my many lifetimes, I have consulted the wisest of sages, learned from the most intelligent of beings, read the greatest of written works and yet...I feel that this is something unanswerable. The solution to this eludes me. 

I have felt this foreboding before, always before tragic events, and I cannot shake this feeling, now, that you are about to leave me.

You see, I had a dream last night. I dreamt that we were back on Naboo, that the Trade Federation had blockaded that small planet yet again. I dreamt that we fought the Sith in the Theed Generator Complex. I dreamt that you died.

An offering. As I had been, the first time.

And when I woke, for a moment I was certain that we had shared the same dream; that you had seen the same startling premonition, for in that moment I was sure I heard you whisper to yourself in anger from the other room.

And how could I blame you for that anger? You did not choose this life, you did not choose any of them. You have never, save once, chosen your manner of death. How could I begrudge you that anger, in light of your love of life? Your reluctance to face death (again) so early on, if that is indeed how you feel? How could anyone ask this of you, knowing how this world, this life hearkens to you? How the light of all that is living shines in your soul, how the meaning of what it is to _be_ lives in your eyes? 

How could anyone ask you to leave a life that so worships you?

The real tragedy, I suppose, is that the universe will always require the greatest sacrifices from the ones who least deserve it.

This is the irony of it all, is it not?

The Force is hungry, you see. I have felt it, seen it, lived it. This is the truth of the matter, beloved, so do not look so surprised when you read these words. You know it to be true, too. The Force is a hungry thing, and this temporary shell of ours, these temporary abilities are an exchange for what we will be required to give. And in the end, we have no control over who lives, who dies, and who is left behind to tell their stories. This is the way of things, beloved.

The Force seeks equilibrium, after all.

It is the way of the Jedi to accept this, I know, to accept this cruel balance. And perhaps in another life I would have found it merciful, but in this one, I cannot help but feel anger. 

Beloved, I must ask you to make me a promise.

Please stay.

I could not bear to lose you when I have only just found you. I could not bear to see you make that sacrifice in my place.

So, if that time comes, beloved...

 

Let it be me. 


	11. Un-Jedi-like Conduct

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) Huge thanks to my amazing Beta, Merry_Amelie! I literally emailed her my drafts and she churned the edits back in record time! Have you guys thanked your Betas today? Thank your Betas today-- they work really hard!
> 
> 2) In honor of my thesis being done-- early chapters!
> 
> 3) Are you guys ready to meet Knight-and-almost-Creche-Master Anakin? Because I am psyched to introduce this character, if only briefly in this chapter.

* * *

 

"Obi-Wan."

"Yes, Master?"

"Getting complaints from Temple healers, I am. Of un-Jedi-like conduct, they say you accused them?"

"I...yes, Master. I'm sorry, Master."

"Apologize to me, you should not. Apologize to them, you will, when you return."

Obi-Wan's "Yes, Master" is decidedly less gracious, here. All he'd wanted were the records of medical procedures he'd had done in Temple. That was it! What did it matter that he wasn't on-planet to provide his bloody fingerprints for identification purposes? They could see his face through transmissions, couldn't they? They were  _his_ documents, after all!

"Obi-Wan."

The young Knight starts. "Yes, Master?"

"Pester the healers any longer, you will not."

"No, Master."

"Bad for inter-Temple relations, it is. Bad for your health, it is."

"Yes, Master."

"Want the healers to give you another limb out of spite, do you?"

"No, Master."

"Hmm." The diminutive green Master's face flickers in transmission. "Feeling well, are you, Obi-Wan? Tired, perhaps?"

"A bit."

"Homesick, perhaps?"

"Perhaps, Master."

The tiny Master cocks his head. Obi-Wan's chest hurts; he is certain he can feel the old Jedi's affection despite the light-years that separate them. Yoda's face softens.

"Tell me, young one."

Obi-Wan cradles his face in his hands, ashamed. How long had it been since he had confided in anyone? So long he had been the one others depended upon...how had he forgotten that he was a part of something bigger than himself, the Temple, the Order? How had he forgotten how small he was?

As if reading his mind, Yoda says, "Weakness, asking for help is not. Strong, you are. Kind, you are. But share your burdens, you do not. A great weakness, _that_ is."

"Master, I don't know anyone who can help me. Not with this."

"Because asked, you have not!" He hears the emphatic thump of the Master's gimer stick amidst the static.

Obi-Wan closes his eyes. Yoda was right.

His words come out slowly. "I don't know what's happening. It started with strange dreams and odd feelings of...of having done things before, in a different time. But lately, I've been looking in the mirror and seeing other people, Master. I'm remembering things that I  _don't_ actually remember happening...I, I look to the Force and it calms me, but it says nothing. Master, I..." Obi-Wan looks up and sees nothing but compassion on the small Master's face. "Master, I'm afraid. I've become angry...anxious. I am not myself."

"Young Obi-Wan, forgotten, you have," Yoda's voice is kind, "fear makes you not a different person. Fear, anger, anxiety...human, these things make you. Alive, these things make you."

"But the Code--"

"Asks you not to feel, the Code does not," Yoda interrupts, "asks you to control your emotions, it does, before control you, they do. The mark of the Jedi, control is."

Obi-Wan releases a slow breath, trying to bleed out his anxieties into the Force. Speaking with the tiny Master has always calmed him. "I'll report to the healers for an evaluation once I return."

Yoda nods slowly. "If wish it, you do. But ill this does not make you, young one."

"What are you saying, then? That these are Force visions or...?"

"Familiar, the experience of other realities is to many people. Sick, does this make them, hmm?"

"I...maybe? Master, I don't understand."

"Good," Yoda says, "learning, you are."

 

*********

_Obi-Wannie,_

_There is no good way to say this._

_Master Chish is dead. Your former post on Treskin IV has been temporarily abandoned. Padawan Narsi survived; he's being kept under supervision in the creche. Knight Skywalker has been keeping watch when the healers cannot. (I expect Anakin's attention and care will do much that the healers cannot.)_

_I hear you're coming home soon. The transport should reach you in a few days._

_Come home safe, Padawan. Both you and that damned Jedi Master._

_May the Force be with you._

_U'lln_

*****

Obi-Wan wordlessly shows the transmission to Qui-Gon, and encloses himself in his room until dinner.

 

*********

"They are wrong, you know."

It comes unexpectedly, two mornings later. They have been waiting for their transport to arrive. Obi-Wan has just entered their quarters after practicing katas in the gardens. Despite the fact that Karthys is a perpetual summer land, the natives preferred dry gardens of rock and colored pebbles rather than verdant, perfumed flora. Obi-Wan appreciates this, the swirl of sand and gravel, the strange formation of the rocks...they are easy to meditate to.

"Who?" Obi-Wan asks, stepping into the 'fresher to towel off his sweat.

"The Order."

Obi-Wan blinks, finger-combing the sand from his hair. Sand, like the gold powder, stuck to everything. But sand, unlike gold powder, had always reminded him of the desert; a temporal wasteland where time trickled by at the same speed that water slipped through your fingers. When he was younger, Obi-Wan had been certain that everything, all lands in all times, simply  _had_ to change. Now, he is not so certain. The palace rock garden had remained unchanged for a millennium, he had been told. Upon asking why the garden had not been rearranged, had not been tended, he had been met with a shrug and a typical Karthysian proverb: "What are we to rock and sand?"

"You speak as if you weren't a part of it," Obi-Wan says belatedly, deliberately avoiding the subject he knows the Jedi Master is addressing.

Qui-Gon tilts his head. "I think," he says slowly, "that becoming a Jedi is far easier than unbecoming one, and that the Order has very little to do with either."

"Good grief," Obi-Wan mutters, dropping into the chair across from the Jedi Master. It is a bit early in the day for dissension against the Order. The older man leans forward, grasping his cup of tea, and Obi-Wan catches a hint of spice-laced sunshine, Qui-Gon's natural scent.

"There is emotion," the Jedi Master says, "there is a great deal of it."

"I can't stop thinking about it," Obi-Wan confesses, "wondering if any of this matters. We try to do so much for so many...how many Jedi have we lost this year alone? Twenty? Forty? Do their sacrifices even matter, in the end, if their deaths cannot prevent the disasters they sought to avoid?"

"It matters." The Jedi Master's voice is fierce; his hands are clenched around his mug. Obi-Wan looks up to find dark blue eyes burning into his. "It matters far more than you realize."

"How can you know?" Obi-Wan challenges.

Qui-Gon's eyes are blindingly blue, backlit by the sun streaming through the window behind him. "Jedi are simply people who make choices that reflect their hopes instead of their fears. You must understand, Obi-Wan, that monsters are not born; they are created...and it is startlingly easy to become one."

"By that logic, almost anyone is a Jedi," Obi-Wan says with a smile.

Qui-Gon half-smiles in return. "The Force does not a Jedi make. That much I have learned for certain."

 

*********

It is night.

They are aboard the transport for Coruscant, listening to the hum of machinery and the usual ambient noise of space travel. Qui-Gon is quietly sitting by Obi-Wan's bed, journal in his lap. The scratch of pen on flimsy is mesmerizing; the young Knight can hardly keep his eyes open.

"Tell me about past lives," he whispers, eyelids heavy.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Past lives," Obi-Wan says drowsily, not yet ready to go to sleep, "You must know about them."

The temporary Force-bond between them is calm and slick, like a waterfall. Peaceful. Until Qui-Gon speaks, and the bond jumps to life with tiny, invisible anxieties.

"What makes you think that?" The Jedi Master sounds too calm.

"Khai-frell wrote about it."

"He did," Qui-Gon agrees, leaning back in his seat. "A pity they don't teach about it in Temple."

"Probably worried their Padawans will grow up and ink his words on their backs." Obi-Wan smiles faintly. "You also asked me about it, you know."

"About what?"

"Past lives."

"So I did."

They fall silent for a while. Qui-Gon isn't sure if Obi-Wan is still awake until:

"You wouldn't have asked me if you didn't believe in them yourself."

Qui-Gon deflects the question. "What do  _you_ think about them?"

The young Knight sighs, aware of the Jedi Master's evasion. Nevertheless, he replies, "I imagine it must be very confusing to try and separate dream from reality. Or reality from reality."

Qui-Gon nods.

"I also imagine," Obi-Wan says more softly, "that it must be very lonely."

"Yes," Qui-Gon answers, and the bond between them twitches, "I imagine it would be."

"Qui-Gon?"

"Hmm?"

"Why are your files inaccessible?"

"What?"

"Your files. In the Temple database. I can't access them."

"Yes, that was...on purpose."

"Why?" Obi-Wan frowns, feeling more awake. "I'm your mission partner. It is imperative that I have access to information about your blood type, physiology, strategic--"

"Yes, yes." Qui-Gon waves a hand. "My files are blocked to all but the Council, Obi-Wan. Not just you."

Obi-Wan gapes. "Then how do...what if...Force, Qui-Gon! Your mission partners--"

"I don't take any," Qui-Gon interrupts.

"What?"

"I. Don't. Take. Any."

"Oh."

"Hmph."

"Well, I'm here now," Obi-Wan replies a bit sharply, "and I need to know what your files say. You were almost killed in that bombing, Qui-Gon. Our lives are the lives of our partners. It's dangerous to withhold your information like that, for both of us."

"I...it was not my choice," Qui-Gon says carefully.

Obi-Wan's frown deepens. "Why would anyone block your files?"

Qui-Gon merely looks at him.

"Are you...do you mean the Council? Did they...? Why won't you talk about it? Why are there certain things you don't--oh. _Oh_." Obi-Wan blinks at the sudden realization. "You're under orders, aren't you?"

Qui-Gon folds his hands within the sleeves of his robes, and doesn't reply.

"You're under orders," Obi-Wan continues, "you can't talk about any of it, can you?"

"I think it's time for you to sleep, Obi-Wan."

"No, it's not. Qui-Gon, I want to know--"

The Jedi Master leans closer, and suddenly Obi-Wan stops talking. The scent of the man is warm and inviting and spicy, like the tea he drinks...the Jedi Master is so close that Obi-Wan can see every detail of his face; the long, dark lashes, the gold flecks in his irises, the faint lines at the corner of his eyes. Qui-Gon leans down further and the young Knight freezes, wondering--

Qui-Gon presses his lips to Obi-Wan's forehead, a traditional gesture so tender that it makes his chest ache. It says:  _I am here. I will protect you. Thank you. I hear you._

"You must sleep, Obi-Wan. I will be here." 

The Jedi Master begins to stand, but Obi-Wan grabs the hem of his sleeve. "Qui-Gon--"

"Obi-Wan, please." Despite his words, the older man sits on the edge of the bed. "You need your rest. You're exhausted."

"No, look at me," Obi-Wan says breathlessly, cupping the Jedi Master's face in his hands, forcing him to meet his eyes, " _Look_ at me. I need..." He trails off.

(What was it he needed? And when had they become this close? When had it happened, that they had become comfortable touching? When had they...?) Qui-Gon's eyes are closed. When he opens them, Obi-Wan stops breathing.

"Please forgive me for this," the Jedi Master says unsteadily, and surges forward to catch Obi-Wan's lips in an open-mouthed kiss. Obi-Wan moans beneath him, startled by the intensity of it, tentative hands buried in the older man's hair. He accepts the kiss greedily, responding in kind, allowing the older man to draw him into his lap. Obi-Wan runs his hands down to Qui-Gon's hips and--

All too soon, Qui-Gon pulls away.

Obi-Wan stares at the Jedi Master, whose hair is disheveled, cheeks flushed, pupils blown wide from arousal. The lust in his belly flares even brighter; he can feel the bond shivering between them, thrumming with the same energy that seems to be pumping the adrenaline-filled blood in their veins. Obi-Wan is trembling from it, and can see that Qui-Gon is in a similar state, which is why it surprises him when the Jedi Master gently places him back in bed. 

"Qui-Gon?"

"Sleep," the Jedi Master says shakily, running a hand through his hair, "Sleep, dearest."

Obi-Wan doesn't have any time to protest the Force-suggestion before he starts to doze. His last conscious thought is the vague realization that Qui-Gon had looked like he was about to cry.

 

*********

U'lln is waiting for them when they disembark; Obi-Wan, quiet, still muzzy from his long sleep, Qui-Gon with hollows beneath his eyes, distant.

_Look at me..._

Qui-Gon had kept Obi-Wan under until they had docked; the temporary Force-bond between them thick and sluggish with unsaid words and too much, too strong emotion. Neither of them had said a word to each other as they listened to the pilot do after-flight landing tests. Neither of them had said a word after Qui-Gon had said:

_"It is time."_

The bond between them had been erased in the blink of an eye; so gently it was almost imperceptible, like an eyelash falling onto a cheek, like the falling of snow to the ground. Obi-Wan finds himself feeling bereft in the moments afterward. 

"Obi-Wan."

The young Knight closes his eyes and allows himself to breathe into his Master's embrace. U'lln is small and warm in his arms, the only mother he's ever known, the only feeling of home that has lasted long enough for him to hold onto. He knows she can sense that something is wrong, something is unbalanced with his Force-signature, but he is grateful when it becomes apparent that she will not be bringing it up right away. 

A lot has changed, after all.

"Welcome home," U'lln says with uncharacteristic solemnity, stepping back to get a good look at her Padawan.

Obi-Wan bears the inspection with grace, and watches as the tiny Twi'lek gives Qui-Gon a quick hug as well. "You are needed here," she tells him. It isn't much by the way of a 'welcome home', but Obi-Wan can see from Qui-Gon's face that it is exactly what he wanted to hear.

_Look at me..._

"The Council is waiting," U'lln says expectantly, motioning Obi-Wan to her side, "and last I heard, Mace was having a litter of kittens over this Trade Federation debacle, so I suspect he'll be in a particularly unpleasant mood once we--"

"Trade Federation?" Obi-Wan inquires, "I hadn't heard about--"

"Obi-Wan."

The young Knight turns. Qui-Gon is holding out the rest of his luggage.

"Thank you," the young Knight says, taking the pack.

"AB negative."

"What?"

"My blood type is AB negative."

Obi-Wan stares.

"You wanted to know." The Jedi Master walks ahead with one last nod to U'lln, cloak billowing out behind him in a familiar way. It was almost like that first time, all those years ago on the balcony. Their first meeting where Qui-Gon had said...

Obi-Wan has a lot of things he wants to say, but he cannot bring himself to say any of them. He settles for questions instead:  _Did I do something wrong? Do you blame me for...? Do those orders also prevent you from being close to me?_

In the end, though, he remains silent, and follows U'lln to the Council chamber. Qui-Gon has already disappeared into the room; Obi-Wan can feel them waiting.

"Good luck with the Council," U'lln says softly, taking the packs from his shoulders.

Obi-Wan hears the ghost of a conversation he'd had many, many years ago...

"Thank you," he says, "I'll need it."

*****


	12. Journal Entry #6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CONTENT WARNING: 
> 
> Mental health issues are going to be discussed in this entry. There are allusions to depression and anxiety. Please skip this entry if these topics are triggering to you in any way, dear readers.

* * *

 

_Journal Entry #6_

_32 BBY_

 

The experience of other realities is, I think, familiar to a great many beings on a great many planets.

You see, in another life, I met a journalist. Her name was Safynass. She was a vibrant woman, full of vitality and emotional depth and the intelligence of a being aware of herself.

All her life she had struggled with what she called 'an excess of good health'. All her life she'd struggled with it, and all of its accompanying symptoms. She went to the doctor in her youth, and she told him, "Give me a prescription. I cannot sleep, I cannot eat, I want to  _do_ and  _do_ and  _do_ , but I cannot! And," she continued, "the worst of it is that some days, I do not want to  _do_ at all! Tell me, doctor, what's wrong with me?"

"You," the doctor told her, "are suffering from the disease of good health. It is a commonplace disease, but it can be incredibly fatal. The good news is, I can provide you with pills, and they will help."

I, of course, was confused, dear reader. She'd told me her symptoms; insomnia, fatigue, lack of appetite, lack of motivation, restlessness...these were not the signs of an excess of good health at all.

"You don't understand," she said to me, "I am in perfect health. That is the problem."

I will never forget what she said next, dear reader, and it was this:

"It is no measure of good health to be well-adjusted in a sick society."

I was flabbergasted, naturally, because she was right. She was perfectly right. Think about it: this disease of good health was simply a condition of people being aware of their corrupted surroundings, their limitations, the injustices of the world...

We treat these symptoms as if they weren't normal; as if it weren't normal to lose sleep worrying about your son in the war zone, as if it weren't normal to ignore food when it is all your body can do to keep you breathing in the polluted-ozone we call air, as if it weren't normal to lack motivation when so often there are people who  _try_ and  _try_ and  _try_ and still never go anywhere.

We treat these normal, defensive reactions as 'symptoms'. As something to be treated, to be cured, rather than something to learn from. 

"Why do you take the pills?" I had asked her then, "Why, if what you're suffering from is only an awareness of reality?"

"Because that's just it," Safynass had answered, "I'm suffering."

 


	13. Departures and Returns

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) As always, many thanks to my efficient, encouraging Beta, Merry_Amelie. Without her mighty editing skills and her support, I would be utterly lost! 
> 
> 2) It has been a while since the last update, dear readers, due to some end of the year work/life things. Thank you for your patience -- regular updates will resume, as per usual!

 

* * *

 

_"Under the cover of the civil war on Treskin IV, a new threat has risen."_

_"A new threat? Before I left, negotiations were --"_

_"Your negotiations were a sham. The Trevi had no intention of negotiating peace with the Skarin."_

_"They have an ulterior motive, then. They are being backed by someone -- someone powerful."_

_"That seems to be the only reasonable conclusion."_

 

*********

Qui-Gon does not speak to Obi-Wan during the Council debriefing. He does not say a word as they walk out of the Council chamber. And Obi-Wan finds that, for the first time, he has no idea how to break this silence between them.

"Well?" U'lln demands, bustling toward them as soon as they exit the chamber. "Has the Trade Federation given Mace a hernia yet?"

"Nothing so dramatic, unfortunately." Qui-Gon's voice is subdued. "They're sending me to Treskin IV."

"So soon?" U'lln asks, surprised.

"A preliminary investigation," Qui-Gon explains, still avoiding the gaze of the young Knight beside him, "They'll call me in for briefing in a few hours."

"Ah. Obi-Wan could probably prep you better than--"

"I don't know if that's necessary," the Jedi Master answers primly, "I leave at dusk."

The knot of worry in Obi-Wan's stomach tightens. There was something about this mission to Treskin that he didn't like. Something about the gaps in their information; their minimal understanding of what had gone wrong in the first place. It wasn't like the Council to be careless with their Jedi, and yet, the whole situation seemed dangerously uncertain.

U'lln's fingers twitch with unvoiced anxiety. "Be safe, then."

"Of course." The Jedi Master turns. "Obi-Wan."

And finally, Obi-Wan is looking into blue, blue eyes. Eyes that say far too much for such a sudden, quiet parting.

"I will see you soon."

Obi-Wan tries to stand his ground and center himself, tries to purge himself of the riot of emotions he's kept holed up in his gut, but he cannot still the rush of adrenaline that makes him reach out and clasp Qui-Gon's hand like he's done it a thousand times before. Like he'd always known how Qui-Gon's hand would feel in his, like he'd always known they'd fit together this way.

The older man turns, startled.

"Be careful," the young Knight says, blue-green eyes intense.

The Jedi Master forces a smile, but his hand tightens around Obi-Wan's convulsively. "You already came after me once. I'll try not to let it happen again."

"I would, though."

"What?"

"I would come after you again."

"Yes, well, I--"

" _Qui-Gon_ ," Obi-Wan grips the man's chin, gently. "I would come after you, again." Forcing him to acknowledge it, to acknowledge him, to acknowledge what lay between them.

The Jedi Master closes his eyes then, and Obi-Wan is surprised to see something like grief etched into the lines of the man's face. An emotion entirely too strong, too present, too sudden, to be anything but sorrow and regret and --

"I know," Qui-Gon says quietly. He lifts Obi-Wan's hand to his lips, brushing a delicate kiss to the palm. "And I am sorry, beloved. You and I--" The Jedi Master takes a deep breath and drops the young Knight's hand, stepping away. "Obi-Wan, you must understand...you don't need me this time."

The young Knight's brow furrows. "I don't-- of course I don't _need_ you, but that doesn't mean...what do you mean 'this time'?"

U'lln's hand grips Obi-Wan's arm, holding him back or keeping him still, the young Knight isn't sure. "Qui, not here--"

"Llinney, it is not your place to--" 

"Qui-Gon, what do you mean?" Obi-Wan interrupts, crossly. 

"Qui," U'lln hisses, " _Don't._ "

There is a tremulous, uncertain moment where time seems to suspend itself. All sound and movement in the Temple cease as Obi-Wan watches the Jedi Masters glare at each other, waging war without words. 

"Why, if it isn't U'lln, as I live and breathe!"

Obi-Wan blinks. The bubble pops; time resumes and the everyday noises of the Temple rush back to his ears. Obi-Wan and his former Master turn to face the interlocutor. The young Knight greets his Master's friend shortly, barely holding back his exasperation.

He is not surprised when, upon turning, he sees that Qui-Gon Jinn is gone.

Later, Obi-Wan replays their conversation in his head, analyzing every nuance of Qui-Gon's speech, memorizing every movement of the man's lips.

_Beloved._

Qui-Gon had called him  _beloved_.

 

*********

Obi-Wan makes his way to the creche, mindful of his shields. He does not want his inner turmoil to be projected onto the minds of the younglings here. (After all, younglings may look like children, may talk like children, but they are not, were never  _just_ children...) The hallways of the creche are lined with artwork and paintings; beading, statues, even primitive mechanical toys line the walls below the children's drawings. He sees more than a few growth-charts penciled onto the walls in Anakin's spiky handwriting, and approaching the main room of the creche, he can hear muffled uproarious laughter.

Drawing close to the main doorway, Obi-Wan peers inside.

An entire clan of crechlings sits on pillows stewn about in zig-zagging rows, children balancing precariously in their seats, lifting small blue balls into the air with the Force. (This is what they  _should_ have been doing, at least-- in reality, the younglings were engaged in furious battles of competitive Force juggling, which, judging by the frowns on some of their faces, was a bit harder than Creche-Master Skywalker was making it look.) The balls rebounded between the children like demented war-missiles, never touching hands or tunics, pushed and shoved by the Force alone. In recent years, since Anakin Skywalker had become Creche-Master, a humorous and not altogether untrue rumor had formed within the Temple, asserting that Force juggling was in reality a front for preparing younglings for battle. Observing the players' concentration and the sheer intensity of the game, Obi-Wan is not unconvinced.

Obi-Wan steps inside. "Am I interrupting?" 

Instantly, the eyes of every creature in the room focus on their new arrival. The previously airborne balls hover for a moment and drop as the younglings' collective concentration breaks.

"...MASDERRR!" The gleeful shout is taken up all across the room as the toddlers tumble off of their pillows and stampede toward the young Knight. Obi-Wan soon finds himself unable to move due to the sheer number of crechelings piling into his legs. 

Obi-Wan laughs out loud for what feels like the first time in many days. "Hello, young ones," he says fondly, patting heads and giving hugs to whomever he can reach, "are you having fun with Master Skywalker?"

"YEEEEEESSS!" The collective screech is deafening.

"We made-ed arts and crafts!"

"-- can't get the paint off my face!"

"I made a picture of Masder Windoo!"

" _I_ drew a Wookie!"

"-- you wanna play, Masder?"

"Alright, alright." An amused voice floats their way from across the room. "Master Kenobi's very interesting and all, but do you know what's  _more_ interesting than Master Kenobi?"

The entire clan's eyes light up in anticipation.

"Snack time!"

"YAAAAAAAY!!"

The herd that had been clinging to Obi-Wan's various limbs dissipates as the crechelings drift toward the snack room, chattering and giggling and huddling close to their friends, leaving Obi-Wan and a grinning Creche-Master to their own devices.

"Ah, the favored Obi-Wan Kenobi, made obsolete by fungus crackers."

"Alas," Obi-Wan replies with a mock-mournful expression, "all great things must fall."

"Speaking of which, nice beard." Anakin smirks. "I'll be ahead of you in the popularity polls this year."

The most widely read tabloid in the Republic,  _Temple Style Weekly_ , had made a living off of printing monthly issues about the mysterious Jedi Order and their Temple on Coruscant. Every New Year, the magazine published an issue containing a Republic-wide poll ranking all Jedi on active duty. A few years previous, Obi-Wan had ranked number one, much to his embarrassment, inspiring months of gossip and good-natured teasing from his fellow Knights...that is, until he'd threatened indiscriminate castration if one more person referred to him as 'The Clean-Shaven Cassanova'. 

"Tell me you didn't keep that issue, Ani."

"Keep the issue? Of course not," Anakin replies with a grin, "I have a subscription."

The two men stare at each other for a moment before breaking into laughter and stepping forward to envelop each other in a warm hug.

"It's good to see you again," Anakin says, pulling away.

"It's good to be back," Obi-Wan answers with a smile. "As much as I'd love to stay and chat, I'm on a tight schedule. U'lln wants to cook me dinner."

The mischievous expression on Anakin's face quickly turns to one of horror. "Oh, Force, do you want a place to hide out? We have plenty of blankets and--"

"It's fine, it's fine," Obi-Wan says with a dismissive wave of his hand, "I promised I'd taste her Galla seed cookies." Privately, Obi-Wan thinks that Anakin looks a bit green, but he pushes onward regardless. "In any case, I'd like to see Padawan Narsi, if you'll allow me."

At the mention of his adopted crecheling, Anakin's demeanor changes. He crosses his arms. "Oh you do, do you." It isn't a question. "Did you see the healers after transport?"

"I did," Obi-Wan answers.

"And your vaccinations?"

"Up to date."

Anakin eyes him suspiciously. "You haven't got lice, have you?"

Obi-Wan glares.

"Hey, I've got to check! The damn things spread through the creche like a plague." Anakin seems to hesitate for a moment, and Obi-Wan is struck with how uncharacteristic that is for a man filled with such confident, kinetic energy. "And do you...know about Treskin IV?"

The young Knight sobers at the question. "Only what U'lln told me."

Anakin nods, flexes a hand thoughtfully. "Well, he...hasn't spoken since. Not a word."

"So, we really don't know what happened, then?" Something clenches in Obi-Wan's chest.

Anakin looks at him sharply. "You aren't going to interrogate him, Obi-Wan. He's been through enough; he'll talk when he's ready."

"Interrogating traumatized younglings isn't generally at the top of my To-Do list."

Anakin stares at him with narrowed eyes, recrossing his arms.

Obi-Wan sighs. When he speaks, his voice is soft. "Chish and I knew each other, Ani...please. Let me do this. For him. For Narsi."

For a moment, Anakin looks as if he might refuse, his dark eyes heavy on Obi-Wan's face, reading what many other people could not even see. Anakin, Obi-Wan admits, has always had an incredible knack for seeing past his defenses.

BEEP.

Anakin's comm goes off. "By all the little gods...Palpatine again?" The young man unhooks the unit from his belt and punches in his code. "Force, I must be more attractive than I thought..."

"Palpatine?" Obi-Wan repeats incredulously, "You have a senator's personal comm number?"

"More like he has mine," Anakin mutters, avoiding Obi-Wan's gaze. "He...listens to me. About my mother. The children. Wants to talk to me about feelings, I guess...kind of suffocating, actually."

"Ani, you...ah...are  _aware_ of the consort tradition on Naboo...?"

Anakin snorts. "Of course."

Obi-Wan frowns. Something in the back of his mind is saying that he's been here before, saying that the senator is not the man they think he is. "Anakin--"

"Look, you don't need to worry about me. I can handle him."

"Does he ever visit...?"

Anakin looks affronted. "Of course not! He makes the children cry. _Trust_ me, Obi. I'm not leaving the Temple for politics."

"I've always trusted you," Obi-Wan replies, feeling a twinge of sadness without fully knowing why.

Anakin's eyes are inscrutable. "I know." He pauses for the space of a heartbeat. "Alright then...first door on your right."

Obi-Wan goes with a warm glow in the pit of his stomach, because Anakin Skywalker's most stubborn attachments, most sacred treasures, are his crechelings. Because, in the end, from Anakin, 'first door on your right' is as good as 'I've always trusted you, too'.

 

*********

Padawan Narsi Or'uula is human; of this Obi-Wan is certain.

Nevertheless, there is something haunting about the thinness of him; the scraggly, not-quite-solid state of his being, blood pumping beneath translucent skin and blue-tinted veins. His eyes are large and sunken, bruised as if he hasn't slept in weeks, cheeks hollow with hunger. The nutrient IV attached to the boy's arm confirms that suspicion.

Despite the fact that the child is fifteen standard and far too old to be rooming with toddlers, the creche seems to be the only place he can sleep soundly. This, if nothing else, tells Obi-Wan how very broken and lost the boy must feel. He cannot imagine what it must be like to lose a Master this way; to lose a teacher, a parent, a friend before your very eyes, helpless...

(Even as he thinks this, there is a voice in his head that whispers  _'Yes, you can...'_ but he doesn't listen to it because there is something wrong with him...something wrong...)

Narsi seems unaware that he has a visitor. He is sitting at a desk and scribbling on scrap pieces of flimsy in a way that suggests the single-minded stubbornness he's inherited from his Master.

_Former Master._

"Hello there, Narsi," Obi-Wan calls when the boy doesn't look up. "I haven't seen you in a while."

(He doesn't bother to say his name because he's perfectly aware that Padawan Narsi knows precisely who he is -- knows him by his Force-signature alone. They'd seen each other many times in the past, a natural consequence of his friendship with Narsi's Master.)

_Former Master._

“You don't need to talk,” Obi-Wan says gently, crouching next to the young boy, “talking can be difficult at times. I'm just here to say hello. To ask you to listen."

Narsi scribbles faster, eyes flickering toward the Knight beside him.

“I wanted to remind you, Narsi, that you are a Padawan. Your Master's life was never your responsibility.”

Narsi's hand stops moving. He peers up at Obi-Wan, head cocked like a tiny, delicate bird.

Obi-Wan gives the boy a small smile. “It isn't something you'll understand until you forgive yourself, little one. And that will take time...healing.”

The young Knight is tempted to call the healers when Narsi doesn't move or blink, his soft brown eyes latched on to Obi-Wan's blue-green.

“I'd like you to try and remember that, even on the worst days, you are still loved and needed and forgiven of every transgression you think you've committed." Obi-Wan ruffles the boy's hair and stands with an overly dramatic groan. "I'd better go before Master Skywalker comes to get me. You know how he can be.” Obi-Wan rolls his eyes and is gratified to see a tiny twitch of a smile at the corners of the child's mouth. Obi-Wan pretends he hasn't seen it, and moves toward the door. “The Council will most likely ship me off sometime soon, so if you-- oh.”

Obi-Wan looks down at the tiny hand fisted in his robes, the surprising strength in the grip of those fingers. In the other, the young Padawan holds a piece of flimsy.

“For me?” Obi-Wan takes the parchment. “Well thank you, Narsi, I'm honored. Would you like it if--?”

But Narsi isn't listening. Having apparently lost interest after fulfilling his duty, the young boy had wandered back to his desk and begun to draw again, his blue-green veins in stark relief beneath the artificial lighting of the room. 

Obi-Wan looks at the flimsy in his hand and feels his heart leap to his throat.

Red.

Red and black.

A being wielding a red 'saber, and a dead Jedi on the ground.

Obi-Wan's stomach roils and a bright, sharp spike of pain stabs at his temples. (Why is this so familiar...I've seen this being before...) He stares at Narsi, but the boy doesn't turn around. Looking back at the flimsy, Obi-Wan tries to explain the picture; surely every Padawan heard stories, after all. Surely he'd only caught a glimpse of old battle holovids, or a forbidden book in the archives. Surely this wasn't -- couldn't be -- what Obi-Wan thought it meant.

_"OBI-WAN!"_

The young Knight closes his eyes against the scream he knows only he can hear, and makes for the door. He isn't sure what instinct is telling him that informing the Council can wait; all he knows is that he needs to find Qui-Gon.

 

*****

 

 


	14. Journal Entry #7

* * *

 

_Journal Entry #7_

_Undated_

 

 

Here is a story:

You are in love. You cannot remember where you were before, and you do not know where you will be after, but you know that this love has always been there. Somehow this fact is incontrovertible. 

You are in love, dear reader, and that is where the story ends.

Because this is not a fairy tale. Because, in the end, this love is all that matters. It is all that has ever mattered, because it is all you have ever had.

Let me ask you a question: What would you be willing to give up for love? What would you give up when love is all you have? Let me ask you a question: What makes a dangerous man? You are in love, and that is where the story ends.

How many times has this story ended? Ten? One hundred? One thousand? How many times must it be a tragedy before it becomes a love story? How many times must the story end before it can begin again? (And that's the thing, dear reader...what if there is no difference between them?)

And if there's no difference between beginning and end, does the tragedy of it matter?

(The answer is yes. It does. Because the real tragedy here is that the universe requires the greatest sacrifices from the ones who deserve it least.)

 

Here is a fairy tale:

Once upon a time, beyond the circles of this world, there is a boy and he is in love.

He is in love, dear reader, and that is not where his story ends.

He was apprenticed to an old weaver, you see, an old, old woman who lives all alone in the deep, dark woods in some place that has long been forgotten. It doesn't matter what her name is, because she goes by many names; Vayu, Kali, Pemba, Bridget, Qi...What is important is that this old woman weaves the fate of the world. She sits alone in her cave in the deep, dark woods, spinning her thread, making the most beautiful tapestry imaginable. A tapestry of every color in the world.

Her loom takes up the entire cave, miles long, impossibly large, and every day she tends to the tapestry; weaving and weaving and weaving while the boy repairs the fading threads. (She is a magic woman, this weaver, spinning spider silk and maiden's tears as easily as the boy's mother spins the cotton wool from their lambs.)

What is important is that the boy was in love. What is important is that his lover was dead. What is important is that his lover had died so that he could live. What is important is that the boy had never forgotten it.

Every day, the boy finds his lover's story amidst the threads. It is woven just above his own; he has memorized every stitch. Every day he finds his lover's story and asks:

"Is today the day I replace these threads?"

"No," the old woman answers, "this is fate. Let your lover lie dead."

Once upon a time, beyond the circles of this world, seven cycles of seven years pass. Every day, the boy asks his question:

"Is today the day I replace these threads? Is today the day my lover lives again?"

"No," the old woman answers, "not this one. Let your lover lie dead."

(Let me ask you a question: What would you be willing to give up for love? What would you give up when love was all you had? Let me ask you a question, dear reader: What makes a dangerous man?)

Once upon a time, beyond the circles of this world, there is an old, old woman and a boy who repairs her tapestry. Every day he watches the old woman weave beings to life, watches her leave people to die, watches lovers reunite in different lifetimes. Every day the boy finds his lover's story and every day knows what he is willing to give up for love. For seven cycles of seven years the boy waits and waits and waits...and the old woman never sleeps.

(The old woman never sleeps, but one night, she does. The same night the boy's mother finds her medicinal powder missing. When the old woman wakes, she finds the boy repairing the threads that decreed his lover's death. She finds the boy, and she curses him. It wasn't supposed to be this way, you see. It should have never happened. The old woman should have never slept, after all, until one night, she did.)

"A curse on you!" the old woman screams, "for meddling with a life that was never yours! I cast you out, oh faithless servant, and may you remember every thread of every life you ever live!"

It is said that the boy spent the rest of his existence searching for his lover. It is said that this story is a fairy tale, you know.

It is said that, lifetimes later, the weaver's fallen children would remember their origins, and would turn her into a deity-- the beginnings of an Order that would span centuries.

But that, I'm afraid, is only the half of it. The rest, you see, is a story we already know.

 

(Once upon a time, eventually, there is a boy who realizes that this fairy tale is, coincidentally, the story of his life.)

 

*****

 


	15. Call for Reparations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) Merry_Amelie is the very paragon of patience and good humor, my friends. Let's have a round of applause for such a rare, wonderful being, Beta, and friend. 
> 
> 2) To my readers, for all of your happy support. I have been quite busy this month what with real life things and all. I look forward to posting more regularly-- so sorry for the wait! 
> 
> 3) Want to hear the (very appropriate) song that often inspires my writing for this fic? https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Jk1dkG8IK10

* * *

 

Qui-Gon Jinn is gone. 

Obi-Wan glares at the open door of the Jedi Master's Temple quarters as if to produce the absent man through sheer force of will. There is a service droid inside, puttering around, happily beeping to itself while vacuuming up dust. It spots the scowling Jedi from beneath a table and pauses, whistling a series of politely inquiring notes.

"He's left already?" the young Knight asks rhetorically. Of course he was gone. Service droids weren't called until a Jedi was listed as off-planet. Obi-Wan looks at the droid. "He didn't say anything before he left, did he?"

The service droid's lights blink in a pattern Obi-Wan recognizes as confusion, but before he can clarify his question, the droid hastily scoots into the bedroom area. It reappears seconds later, waving a book in its pincers, burbling triumphantly in binary.

"I, ah...thank you." Obi-Wan hesitantly takes the book from the droid's mechanical claw, brow furrowed. The droid chirps in return and zooms away to continue its housework.

The book is small, the leather dark from years of daily handling, the letters 'QGJ' embossed into the spine of it. Obi-Wan's breath comes faster-- he knows what this is. He'd seen the Jedi Master with it in hand ever single night on Karthys. A scrap piece of flimsy sticks out of the journal: 'For Obi-Wan.'

With trembling hands, he opens the journal to the first page.

It is undeniably Qui-Gon Jinn's handwriting: neat and evenly spaced. The first entry is written in an entirely foreign alphabet, one that Obi-Wan, for all his galactic wandering, has never even seen. He flips through the pages at random, astonished by the sheer volume of information recorded there. Certain pages are old and crumbling, the flimsy yellow with age and faded ink, stuffed in between the newer pages as if they had been ripped from something far older. The age of some of the entries doesn't surprise him as much as the content itself. There are alphabets he isn't familiar with, yes, but even the entries that are written in Aurebesh seem to be in languages other than Galactic Basic or any of the other slew of languages Obi-Wan knows.

Obi-Wan flips to the last entry at random, and feels his heart stop.

ACCESS CODE: 23LLHAA8..0444JINNQG

*********

 

_...under observation for a period of 48 hours. Heart-rate and blood pressure were elevated, but otherwise the patient was calm. He was lucid while awake, though his sleep was disturbed by night terrors. Several night-shift workers reportedly heard the patient talking in his sleep. Upon inquiry, they confirmed that he had been speaking to beings who could only be high-ranking officials from various well-known star systems. An examination of the patient's training records indicated an intimate familiarity with Jedi training far beyond his current level, enough to corroborate the Council's findings regarding..._

"He was a  _child!_ " Obi-Wan hisses through clenched teeth. He has spent the better part of two hours reading Qui-Gon Jinn's public files -- it doesn't help that there are an excessive number of reports filed by both the healers and the Council. The majority of the Jedi Master's early life had been lived in the healing ward or speaking with counselors, it seemed.

Obi-Wan feels pity tighten in his chest, pity for the child who had been forced to sit through endless healers' examinations, prodded by needles and interrogated by counselors instead of making friends among his creche-mates. (Later, the files would wonder why, despite his intelligence and kind disposition, Padawan Jinn did not have a large social circle.) Pity for the child who had been trained by a Jedi who had been taught to treat his Padawan's anxieties and nightmares as weaknesses; who had done little to act as the emotional anchor a Master should be to a scared, confused child.

(The healers had recorded a young Qui-Gon asking what he had done wrong, why he was different. Why people told him he wasn't normal.  _It concerns both healers and Council that the patient seems unaware of the unusual nature of his affliction. On more than one occasion he has confided in his Master that he thought everyone remembered their lives the way he did._ ) 

Obi-Wan continues reading and finds that, as Qui-Gon had grown older, he had learned to keep his own counsel. By the age of 13 the healers considered him 'rehabilitated'. The Council, however, was another story -- their investigations were ongoing.

The young Knight accesses Qui-Gon's private files, frowning. Generally, private files were sorted by year, but Qui-Gon Jinn's were different. Every document had been sorted according to two different time periods:

 **92 BBY-32 BBY** and  **3561 ATC-3621 ATC (Present)**.

As it was the year 3621 after the Treaty of Coruscant, Obi-Wan recognized the second set of dates. The former, however, he did not recognize at all. Clicking on the notation embedded in the document, Obi-Wan reads:

_**BBY: allegedly a calendrical era meaning 'Before the Battle of Yavin'.** _

Obi-Wan's frown deepens.  _What the bloody hell is the Battle of Yavin?_

"I've finished the translations, Knight Kenobi!"

"Thank you," Obi-Wan replies absentmindedly, scrolling further through the files on his datapad. "You can leave it on the desk, if you'd like."

The protocol droid does so. "Will that be all, Knight Kenobi?"

"Yes, thank you."

The young Knight waits for the droid to leave before snatching the journal up with unseemly haste. He puts the first entry and the translation side by side and begins to read.

*********

 

There is a story among the Jedi.

In the wake of a great, unnamed catastrophe, mere years after the Order's founding, it was decided that a Call for Reparations must be made, that the watchers might be watched so that the very Order they safeguarded would be protected from them. The call would be divided into two parts: an address of grievances and the emendation of injury. It had seldom been used in the entire history of the Order, and never in recent memory.

Obi-Wan stalks through the halls of the Temple in ceremonial white, expression thunderous, Force-signature billowing with anger beneath a thin veneer of calm. He barely registers the shocked looks thrown his way, his grip tight on a leather journal and a folded piece of flimsy.

The sentinel posted outside of the Council chamber looks Obi-Wan up and down as he approaches. "Do you have an appointment, Master Kenobi?" he asks warily. 

"It's  _Knight_ Kenobi, and no," Obi-Wan replies, voice brittle and tight, as if holding back some great emotion, "but the Council will see me anyway."

"You--"

"I am issuing a Call for Reparations," Obi-Wan interrupts, "and the Council  _will_ see me. Immediately."

The young sentinel's eyes widen and he disappears into the room without another word. A mere minute or so later, he emerges and bows. "The Council answers your summons, Master Kenobi."

Obi-Wan throws the doors to the Council chamber open, and doesn't bother to correct the sentinel a second time.

*********

 

Council member Mace Windu looks out the glass windows of the Council chamber with a sigh. It was an unusually clear Coruscanti night; the stars were bright, the moon low, hanging heavy in the sky. (A bad portent, his people would say, a bad portent and a bad night.) While he did not consider himself a superstitious man, there was no mistaking the inauspicious nature of the summons they had received moments before.

_"You have been summoned, honored Council members," the sentinel had said, "to answer a Call for Reparations in accordance with the law of the Order."_

Perhaps they should have expected it, the Jedi Master thinks to himself, watching Knight Kenobi stride into the Council chamber in ceremonial white.

After all, things had changed.

"Greetings to the Council," Knight Kenobi says with a formal bow, "and may the Force be with you."

Polite, ritual words, but Mace isn't fooled. There is a glint in the young Jedi's eyes, his posture stiff and defiant in a way that speaks of passing judgement. As inappropriate as that is for a Knight of the Order, Mace cannot find the will to reproach him. (And Mace can feel the strength of the man as a bright flame in the Force. He feels it every time he passes Kenobi in the halls, in the commissary; the Force-blessed-will of the young Knight that had always comforted him in the past, comforted him because the Temple was better off for having a Knight like Obi-Wan Kenobi return home, safely.)

Mace inhales deeply and knows instantly that the Force is, will always be, with Obi-Wan Kenobi.

He knows that Yoda is thinking the same thing from the resignation in the diminutive Master's voice when he says, "Summoned us for reparations, you have, Knight Kenobi?"

"Yes, Master."

"And your grievances?" Depa holds out an open palm, as if to ask 'why' rather than 'what', as if she were struggling to remember that reparations were never personal. (Mace recalls Depa, uncharacteristically vicious, teeth bared as she taught Padawan Kenobi the basics of hand-to-hand combat. U'lln had winced as Depa kicked the boy to the floor.  _"You don't think she's being too harsh, do you?"_ U'lln had asked. Mace had watched the Chalactan Jedi Master order the boy to his feet.  _"She wouldn't be so harsh if she didn't care. She's teaching Obi-Wan how to survive."_ ) Mace wonders how many Council members Obi-Wan had befriended, wonders how many of them were looking at the man now and feeling betrayed.

(Wonders if this feeling of uncertainty, of regret, was simply due to the summons, or because Obi-Wan Kenobi was who he was.)

Mace sees Obi-Wan's gaze soften momentarily and knows that the young Knight recognizes Depa as the woman who had saved his life several times over. But when he speaks, his voice is hard. "I will present my grievances in due time, but first, I'd ask the Council to examine a picture given to me by Padawan Narsi Or'uula."

Obi-Wan unfolds the piece of flimsy in his hand and holds it up for the Council to see. A chill seems to sweep the room. Mace grips the arms of his chair hard, trying to surreptitiously bleed out the dread that had numbed his fingers.

"A Zabrak," Eeth Koth declares, standing to get a better look.

"A Sith," Yarael Poof corrects, head bobbing in distress.

"Indeed," Obi-Wan says with deadly calm. Depa flinches. "At first, I wasn't sure why the Council would send a Jedi to Treskin IV on his own without a full understanding of what had happened there. But then I realized that you did, in fact, know what had happened there, and that Qui-Gon Jinn knew, too. Or at least suspected."

Obi-Wan re-folds the flimsy and clasps his hands in front of him didactically. "The thing about past lives is that you're never supposed to tell anyone what you know. About the future, I mean. Karks up the whole bloody timeline, you see. But when Qui-Gon Jinn was a child, you took that choice away from him. You asked him to tell you about his first life as a Jedi, and he was too young to know any better."

"Refused us, he could have," Yoda says, "Asked his permission, we did."

"Thoughtful, really. I'm sure the fact that you were Council members didn't influence his poor, awestruck, child-brain one bit." Obi-Wan levels his flint-like eyes on the Haruun Kal Jedi Master, steamrolling any angry protestations. "Qui-Gon told you after you took a seat on the Council, didn't he? You kept an eye on Tatooine after that. You realized you could not create a weapon of war and then ask it to find peace."

"I believed Qui-Gon," Mace says in a low voice, "I believed him when no one else did."

"So you took Anakin Skywalker as your apprentice."

"And saved the very Order doing so!"

"In theory." 

" _Enough!_ " Yoda raps his gimer stick against the tiled floor. "Useless, this bickering is! What is done, is done."

The Council room is silent. Kenobi has folded his hands into the sleeves of his robes, looking for all the world like a hawk in captivity, biding his time.

The troll-like Jedi Master closes his eyes briefly, ears low. "Reparations, you have come for, hmm? What have you to say, then, Obi-Wan?"

Mace watches the man take a breath, and knows that he will always remember Obi-Wan Kenobi this way: tall and golden, lit by the moonbeams streaming through the Temple windows, wisdom on his brow and ferocity in his eyes. This was a man who could be a hero. This was a man who could be revered.

"I have come to seek reparations on behalf of Master Qui-Gon Jinn."

A wave of murmurs breaks over the Council; Mace sits back in his chair, his suspicions confirmed. Kenobi would have never come to seek reparations on his own behalf. Of that much, he had been certain.

"Unusual, this is," Yoda says softly, when the noise had faded to silence.

"Unusual, yes," the young Knight agrees, "but not forbidden. I am demanding reparations for Master Jinn's past and ongoing emotional distress, for the isolation forced upon him, and for the secrets he was ordered to bear. These things put the both of us in unnecessary danger on Karthys and--"

"Unnecessary?" Yarael Poof's eyes narrow. "You are in no position to question the Council's--"

"I am not  _questioning_ the Council, Master Poof, I am accusing it. In its quest for knowledge the Council has breached every law grounded in compassion that respects the sanctity of the human person, not to mention the blatant disregard for Master Jinn's right to freedom of conscience and self-determination."

Mace feels Yoda's eyes upon him and knows that they are thinking the same thing, knows that they cannot fight this battle. They might wage a war, but it would be long and bloody and fruitless...they could not win a war of words against the Negotiator. Not now, not when their only hopes for survival were Jedi like Obi-Wan Kenobi. Not when the Order was stretched so thin, when the galaxy was crumbling into anarchy and violence. Not now, not like this.

"If your charges, these are, your demands, you must tell us." The tiny Jedi's voice is heavy. Mace looks toward the wizened Grandmaster, who for the first time in living memory seems dwarfed by the weight of his position, dwarfed by the very seat he rested in. (Later, Mace will think about that unexpectedly cruel irony and wonder if, perhaps, Yoda knew all along.)

Some of the harshness has bled out of Kenobi's stance; something about the Grandmaster's reply has calmed the wild-panic-consternation in his eyes. "Master Jinn would never accept anything you offered him. As you can see, he never even thought to come forward for the reparations he deserves."

"You want something in his stead." Mace can hear the disbelief that colors his own voice. ( _He planned this,_ the Jedi Master thinks incredulously,  _he planned this..._ )

The young Jedi Knight inclines his head gracefully. "I ask nothing of you that Master Jinn would not accept," he says. "My only request is permission to accompany Master Jinn on his reconnaissance mission regarding the Sith."

"It is well known that the Jedi travel in pairs," Depa protests. "You would only draw more attention to him."

"He is in far graver danger facing a Sith alone."

"Master Jinn has trained tirelessly in the art of combat. He is well versed in several 'saber styles and is one of our best warriors. He is perfectly capable of handling this on his--"

"I am not questioning Master Jinn's skill," Obi-Wan volleys sharply, "merely the wisdom of refusing to send the only two Jedi who have faced an enemy this powerful for a millennium."

"I think, Knight Kenobi, that you forget yourself." Yarael Poof's voice is icy.

"My apologies, Master Poof, but it seems you've forgotten the meaning of 'sound judgement'."

"How  _dare_ \--"

"I've _been_ here before!" Kenobi roars, "I have  _seen_ this Sith. I have fought him and I have won! The Republic is on the brink of war, the Senate frustrates our every effort, and people's faith in the Order is lessening. What better way to throw the galaxy into chaos than the brutal execution of one of the Order's most well-known Masters?"

The young Knight's outburst is met with silence.

(Mace looks at the Jedi Knight before them and remembers him as a child: mussed hair, sticky hands, toddling behind his Creche-Master. Kenobi's path had always been clouded, always been a matter of choice. There was no such thing as fate, only free will and the Force.)

The quiet is broken by Yoda's sigh. "Accompany Master Jinn, if you must. Accepted and heard, your Call for Reparations is. Free to leave at any time, you are."

"Master, with all due respect, you can't just--" Depa begins.

" _Can't_ , say you?" Yoda's ears perk up. "Allow emotion to come before duty, we must not. Not a time for emotion, this is. Clouds our better judgement, it does."

Depa subsides, hands clasped tightly.

Knight Kenobi looks at the Chalactan Master affectionately, knowingly. "If our lives are the price we pay for the risks we take as Jedi, then so be it. I have given my life to the Order," Obi-Wan says gently, "and there is no Darkness that does not submit to the Light."

Depa opens her mouth as if to say something more, but closes it a moment later. "Go with the Force then, Knight Kenobi. Both you and Master Jinn."

Obi-Wan bows low and turns to leave. Mace feels a twinge of loss when the doors to the chamber close and tries not to think of it as penance.  _This is the price you pay for complacency._

(Later, Depa would find him in one of the more secluded hallways of the Temple. She would place a hand on his arm and quietly say: "He never asked us why we never told him. He never asked."

And Mace would turn, breaking her grip, and reply: "He never asked why because he already knew the answer."

 _The universe always requires the greatest sacrifices from the ones who deserve it least._ )

 

*****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quote about Anakin and war/peace from littlesoldier and the edit by sskyguy on Tumblr.


	16. Journal Entry #8

* * *

 

_Journal Entry #8_

_Undated_

 

If there is one thing I have learned from reincarnation, it is this:

There is no such thing as luck. There is no predetermined path, no such thing as one single destiny. There is only you and the universe and the choices you are forced to make. There is only chance. (And I'm not even certain there is such a thing as that.)

But this does not mean there is no such thing as fate. (And those of us who believe in myth know the reality of the cyclical nature of being, don't we?) If it wasn't fate that brought my lover and I together, that brings us together time and time again, then what was it? I cannot imagine it was luck, or chance, though it would have been easier if it had been.  

Choice is an important thing, dear reader, because choice is the one thing that has the power to define us.

You see, for some time now I've been thinking about choice, and how it alters the schema of our lives. I've been wondering if it was choice that landed us here again, or if it was chance; wondering whether or not my lover and I were placed here (again) for some purpose, because something hadn't gone right the first time. Why do we have the same names, same faces, same skills as the first time? Why have we stayed the same when so many beings around us have changed?

I'd written down, in many entries before this one, that knowing the  _why_ and  _how_ of this journey would make it meaningless. Perhaps that is true, but I find myself wondering if this journey's purpose is to find the  _why_ and  _how_.

I have a theory:

I believe that our choices matter when it comes to our fates.

I believe that myth and fate and the reality of  _being_ are not so separate as we are taught to think.

I believe that, in the end, we are free to make our choices, but we are not free to choose the consequences. Nevertheless, our choices guide us.

What I suppose I'm trying to say, dear reader, is that I believe Obi-Wan and I _chose_ to be here. I believe that we are here again by some doing of our own, by some mutual (or perhaps not so mutual) agreement. Whether it is fate or a second chance, there is no doubt in my mind that this fate, this second chance, was molded by circumstances and events wrought by our choices, by our will.

If violent deaths mark our bodies in the next life, if skills so ingrained in our minds carry over to the next life, is it not possible that strength of will might affect our beings in the next life as well? Is it not possible that a person who identifies so strongly with one version of his being might inhabit that same body, that same being in his next life?

Is it not possible that love, the only constant you have ever had, might change the course of your every existence? Might draw you, irreversibly, toward one another? Might carve out of you a myth about the tragic inevitability of love and all of the cyclical ways it affects the universe?

All of the ways it might kill you, and bring you back to life again?

 

*****

 


	17. As Above, So Below

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) Huge, huge round of applause to my irreplaceable Beta, the magical Merry_Amelie! Without her, this chapter's rough drafts would have made you question my literacy.
> 
> 2) I took bits and pieces of inspiration from Walter Benjamin's "The Storyteller". Here's a song I wrote to: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SHVBdutqSao
> 
> 3) Tags were updated, dear readers: Check 'em out!

* * *

For a period of time during the earlier years of his life, he hadn't been sure the Force had wanted him, hadn't been sure he was meant to be a Jedi. Because while many beings in the Order could exchange tales of how they had always known, how the Force had whispered to them in the cradle and told them that they would be different than the rest, Obi-Wan Kenobi was not one of them.

The Force had never told him that he was meant to be a Jedi. Rather, it had told him other things, spoken to him of another destiny.

 _Do not fear,_ it had said, _for you are_ _chosen among chosen, most beloved of our every treasure; you are both sacred and sacrifice._

And he hadn't worried about it overmuch until he was one of the older children in the creche, when he'd told his Creche-Master that the Force had never said that he was meant to be a Jedi. _Sometimes,_ she'd told him in reply, _our futures are things we must learn along the way._

 _But all the other Padawans know,_ Obi-Wan had argued, _why don't I?_

_The Force does not always tell us what we want to hear, little one._

_But Master, why am I not like the others?_

When his Creche-Master had next spoken, it was from a place of deep knowing.

_Perhaps you have a different lesson to learn, Obi-Wan. Perhaps your question shouldn't be 'Why don't I?', but instead, 'What do I want?'._

That night, Obi-Wan had decided, consciously, that he was going to be one of the greatest Jedi that had ever lived. All he had ever wanted was to become a Jedi; it had been his dream since as long as he could remember. He felt called to this vocation, to this work that he didn't yet know how to do. (And the Temple was all he had ever known, so how could he have chosen any differently?) Yet even after his resolution, the Force remained quiet on the matter. He could feel its approval as he grew in both strength and knowledge, whispered riddles still ripe on its tongue whenever he reached out with the intention of finding answers.

 _You alone are worthy,_ it would tell him. _You, alone._

Still, despite the vague approval of the Force, despite his Master's assurance that it should be so, Obi-Wan hadn't felt fully certain until the day he'd met Anakin Skywalker.

He had been on creche duty one New Year's Eve, which was an active night for the younglings. They were responsible for parading through the Temple in a ritual of cleansing, giggling and waving their sticks of incense like wands, shepherded by their Creche Masters. Later, after the Temple had been cleansed, after the banquet had ended and Yoda had finished the New Year's Blessing, the younglings would return to the creche for a story. (It was odd, Obi-Wan thought, how every year's story seemed to be a warning, a macabre tale robed in myth.)

The Storyteller was a different being every year. It was considered a great honor to be chosen to impart the coming year's wisdom upon the minds of the youngest Jedi. That year, the year Anakin had arrived, Qui-Gon Jinn had been chosen. (And though Obi-Wan couldn't say with certainty that there was any meaning behind meeting Anakin the way that he did, he was sure it had meant something that the three of them had been in that one place, at that one time, together.)

The creche had been in its usual disarray: pillows strewn about, younglings sprawled half on top of each other, huddled under fleece blankets on the floor. Obi-Wan had settled himself in the middle of the crowd, remembered feeling the warmth radiating off of so many tiny bodies in one space, remembered the golden cast of the candle-lit room, so unlike the artificial lighting that brightened the rest of the Temple.

Master Jinn's story had been a short one: a story about the balance and equilibrium of the universe. Obi-Wan didn't remember it all, but he did remember feeling strangely like the story had been more than a story, like he had heard it somewhere, before.

 _Here is a story_ , Qui-Gon had begun, _It is said that all beings are a reflection of the universe around them; a microcosm of the larger, natural world, a body made of starlight and dust and beginnings. It was a miracle that in the midst of chaos, all of the antimatter and entropy of the universe culminated in the creation of something as living and bright and balanced as you. If there is one thing a Jedi must know, it is this: your every action will have a consequence._

 _And here is the reality,_ he had said. _In any time, in any place, the same lessons must be learned. It is only because we cannot relate our exact whereabouts to an infinite horizon that we are presented with the illusion of progress. Everything is cyclical. Death in one place means life in another. If there is one thing a Jedi must know it is this: you are meant to keep the peace, but one day, you will become a victim of it._

And Obi-Wan had always known that the Force required balance; that it would claw its way back to equilibrium no matter how many it buried beneath its weight. The Jedi served the Force, yes, but the Jedi also knew how little control they truly had in the grand scheme of the universe. Knew that and accepted it, because their work was important in spite of that knowledge. There had never been any contradiction in Jedi doctrine between the Force as loving mother, and the Force as vengeful fate.

Later, after the stories had finished, Obi-Wan had approached Master Jinn. Cautiously, hesitantly, as most people approached this legendary giant of a man. (Later, their relationship would be too contentious for this informality. Obi-Wan would savor this memory.)

 _Master Jinn,_ Obi-Wan remembers asking, _is every Padawan meant to be a Jedi?_

Perhaps it was because of his questioner's age or earnestness, but either way the Jedi Master's eyes had softened. _Being a Jedi is always a choice, Padawan. You know best who you are, far better than any other; why should you doubt that instinct now?_

It had been one of those moments, Obi-Wan remembered, where some question inside of him had been answered, where some uncertainty had been laid to rest. As he was speaking with the tall, serene Master, a sandy-haired youngling no older than two or three had toddled up to him, recognizing his face. The tiny being had clung to Obi-Wan's trousers, gazed at him adoringly, and murmured, 'Mastah'.

_Master._

And that was it. Just like that, something inside of Obi-Wan had fallen into place; some confirmation that he was going to be a Master and was, by default, meant to be a Jedi. Fifteen-year-old Obi-Wan Kenobi had bent down and picked up the crecheling he later learned was Anakin Skywalker, and had felt, for once, that he was totally and completely at peace.

He feels the same kind of peace while sitting in the cockpit of a ship bound for Treskin IV, hurtling full force toward the destiny he'd wondered about for so long. He feels the same kind of peace when he acknowledges the weight and meaning of what he is about to do. Because despite all of the 'could haves' and 'maybes' of the universe, he is certain that, in the end, this is precisely where he is meant to be.

 

*********

 

The Chancellor of Treskin IV hurries through the doors of the meeting room, robes dusty and askew. The walls are not soundproof; he can hear the march of booted feet, the scream of cannon fire as if the combatants were walking alongside him. As if he were still rushing through the blood-soaked fields, mud squishing around his ankles with every step. As if his escort were still surrounding him, a new man at his side nearly every few yards and a trail of bodies in his wake.

He winces when the sliding doors snap closed, shaken by his journey through the killing grounds. He takes a moment to straighten his robes before meeting his guest's gaze.

The man at the head of the negotiating table is familiar to him: legs crossed, arms spread across the back of the settee as if he were waiting for a friend at the spaceport rather than sitting in a fortified structure with a civil war raging just outside.

The Chancellor clears his throat. “Greetings, Jedi Kenobi.”

“Chancellor.” The man's eyes are as cold as the farthest reaches of the icewastes on Hoth. “How kind of you to meet me on such short notice.”

“Yes, well,” the Chancellor clears his throat again and pretends he doesn't feel the building tremble as someone trips a landmine nearby, “there was an unexpected opening in my schedule.”

“How fortunate.”

The Chancellor shifts his weight before forcing himself still. Tradition dictated that rulers were unable to join their guests at table unless first invited. While allowing a ruler to remain standing for any large amount of time was a grievous and often fatal slight, he hoped that the Jedi had forgotten this cultural oddity.

The Jedi waves him to a seat and his heart sinks. No such luck. “Please, sit.”

He wonders if the Jedi can see his eyes clearly behind his ceremonial mask; not that it would matter – his predecessor had warned him that Jedi didn't need to see your face in order to sense your fear. The Chancellor obeys.

The Jedi folds his hands. “I was expecting Chancellor Arvit to greet me when I arrived. Will he be joining us today?”

His grandfather had been commissioned to build this table. It had been a great honor to be a stone mason, in those days.

“I'm afraid not. Chancellor Arvit met an unfortunate end some days ago.”

“Regrettable,” the Jedi says quietly, a small frown marring his forehead, “he was a good man. When will the elections for the new co-Chancellor take place?”

The Chancellor hastily calculates the number of seconds it would take for the royal guards to enter the chamber versus the number of seconds it would take the Jedi to put a 'saber through his heart. “They've been...postponed.”

(No matter how he imagines it, the Jedi wins every time.)

“I see.”

“The other Jedi was here, a few days ago,” the Chancellor says, feeling emboldened, “he saw no problem with it.”

There is another explosion in the distance. The lines around the Jedi's eyes tighten almost imperceptibly.

“It occurs to me,” the Jedi says, almost casually, “that your warships look quite similar to the Order's ambassadorial fleet.”

“I, well, yes,” the Chancellor says defensively, “after you left...when the other Jedi was killed we thought it best. It struck fear into the hearts of the Skarin rebels. The Jedi had abandoned us. We had to accomplish something on our own.”

“What you accomplished, Chancellor, was a near diplomatic incident, as my ship was shot down by Skarin forces five days ago.”

“We hadn't heard--”

“And during those five days, after narrowly escaping imprisonment and demanding a thorough explanation for the mishap from their leadership, I discovered several interesting things.” The Jedi scratches his beard, the Chancellor following the movement with wary eyes.

“Firstly, I discovered that Chancellor Arvit's death occurred shortly after the Order placed sanctions upon Treskin IV. Secondly, I found that a command had been given for new warships to be manufactured long before any sanctions were established. Long before the Order abandoned you, as you say.”

“Of course! It was a strategic move on our part--”

“--to ensure that the Skarin looked as guilty as possible, or to ensure that no Jedi lived to find out? Or was it both?”

“I couldn't possibly know what you mean by that!”

“What I _mean_ is that you manufactured warships that are near replicas of the Order's, meaning that the Skarin wouldn't hesitate to shoot down any visiting Jedi, thinking that they were, in fact, the enemy. Two birds. One stone.”

The Chancellor gapes.

The Jedi sighs. “Chancellor, we are both intelligent men. We know what it means to give orders, because that is how leadership works; we take orders until we are fit to give them. But let us not kid ourselves: you are a man who is used to taking orders.”

The Chancellor rises to his feet, glowering, fists clenched.

“Sit _down_.”

The men glare at each other for a long moment. The Chancellor's gaze wavers first; he sits slowly. It is tradition. A leader cannot refuse an invitation to table, no matter how it is issued.

“Now, let's get to the matter at hand, shall we?” The Jedi's voice is soft. “Your reports say that Master Chish died on the killing fields. A blaster wound to the heart. I confess, I find myself skeptical, Chancellor.”

“The medical examiner reported that--”

The Jedi uncrosses his legs and leans his forearms against the table. “There was no medical examination, and Master Chish did not die on the killing fields.”

“How would you--”

“You and I both know, Chancellor,” the man calmly interrupts, “that you have made a deal with someone you do not want to risk angering. Someone who is responsible for your rise to power, and ultimately the deaths of Chancellor Arvit and Master Chish. But make no mistake,” the Jedi says softly, “you are playing a dangerous game, and you will pay for it.”

“You're bluffing.” The Chancellor notes proudly that his voice doesn't even shake.

“Am I?” The Jedi raises an eyebrow. “Whether or not your new patron is bluffing should be of greater concern to you at the moment. Regardless, Chancellor, your newfound position has caused a great deal of collateral damage...the kind that has gained the attention of both the Jedi Order and the Supreme Court.”

“They can't prove anything.”

“I wouldn't count on that. It's only a matter of putting together the pieces. A planet temporarily abandoned by the Order and seemingly wracked by permanent civil war is the perfect place to harbor a Sith apprentice, wouldn't you agree? All those inconvenient people just...disappear. No one questions this, of course, because there is a war going on. One that is thought to be unmitigable, even by the Jedi Order. ”

The Chancellor pales behind his mask. “Why are you really here?”

The Jedi smiles. “I'd like a ship, Chancellor.”

“I...what? You want a ship?” The Chancellor stammers, startled by the accusation and the abrupt change in topic.

“Yes. If Master Jinn is gone, that means the Sith is gone as well.”

“You really think that--”

“What I think, Chancellor, is that you are in a very delicate situation. When you are brought to trial for war crimes, treason, and murder, because that time will come soon, I will be the only person in that courtroom willing to ask that they spare you capital punishment. Is a single warship worth more than your life?”

The Chancellor looks down at the stone-top table. His grandfather had died underneath it, crushed beneath its weight. In spite of all that honor.

“Go. You shall have your ship.”

He does not look up to see the Jedi leave.

 

*********

“ _Who are you?”_

“ _Don't you know?”_

“ _Have you been waiting for me?”_

“ _It's been a long time, you know...”_

“ _Tell me about your past lives.”_

“ _You must know about them already.”_

“ _I imagine it's confusing. And lonely at times.”_

“ _Yes...I imagine so.”_

 

*********

 

The Trade Federation does not make him feel welcome.

The warship makes a shaky emergency landing in the Theed hangar, bowling over several battle droids in the process. It shudders to a halt, lateral thruster smoking, landing mechanisms jammed, and the air filtration all but dead. Toxic fumes start seeping out of the air vents, the slow hiss of gas coming from somewhere deep inside the ship. The security subsystems begin to blare when droid parts and stray weaponry clang against the ship, testifying to the struggle going on outside.

“Dioxin before dishonor,” Obi-Wan mutters to himself, tapping out a rapidfire command to the navigational system, “so uncivilized.”

Unshaken by the crash landing, he spreads out his Force sense, blanketing the entire area, picking the humans out of the mess of droids in the hangar. One human shines brighter than the others; a banked flame in the Force, radiating a deadly mixture of battle fever and unwavering calm. (A Jedi always stood out in the Force as a predator; a blatant contradiction to the midi-chlorians that marked the Jedi as beings born for peace and bred for battle. Strange, that no one had ever considered the opposite.)

And Obi-Wan knows that his arrival has been felt by more than just Qui-Gon Jinn. Beyond the hangar a presence draws closer; something that feels like it bloomed at night, something twisted and cloying and thick with rot. The wrongness of it sends shivers down his spine. He can feel the moment Qui-Gon feels it, too. Can feel the dread-acknowledgment-acceptance of the man, the echo of pain that wracks his torso in an instinctive response to what he knows is coming.

Obi-Wan had been drawn to the Jedi Master throughout his apprenticeship, had seen the startled recognition in the Jedi Master's eyes when they'd first met. He had gone out of his way to impress the man, to force his approval and acknowledgment. He'd known even then that he belonged with the Jedi Master the way a 'saber belonged to a Jedi. That they should have been together through every fear and fight and anguish they'd had to face alone. Why should now be any different?

“Kark it.” Obi-Wan slams the button for emergency lockdown and heads for the hull of the ship, cloak billowing, 'saber ignited.

The blast doors open and his ears are flooded with the screech of metal on metal, the familiar hum of a lightsaber, the scream of blaster fire.

The young Knight jumps down from the ship and wades into the fray. He can see Qui-Gon across the room, the powerful sweeps of his lightsaber destroying any droid that steps within range. The Queen and her troops have fallen into position behind their Jedi protector, desperate to hold their ground against the assault. Deflecting a blow from a one-armed droid, Obi-Wan strikes back and moves forward, leaving a pile of scrap metal in his wake.

“Get to your ships!”

Padme's order echoes throughout the hangar. The pilots draw the majority of the fire while dashing for their fighter crafts, allowing Obi-Wan to disengage and make his way to Qui-Gon's side.

“Hello there,” Obi-Wan greets the company, casually deflecting a blaster bolt from a nearby droid, “I take it the negotiations were short?”

The fighter crafts have taken off. Captain Panaka and his men have swarmed the hangar, overwhelming the few remaining combatants. The Jedi Master deactivates his lightsaber, tossing Obi-Wan a baleful look. “The negotiations never took place, as well you know.”

The Queen looks from Obi-Wan to Qui-Gon in confusion. “You never told us another Jedi was arriving.”

The two Jedi trade surreptitious glances, and Obi-Wan gleans everything he'd wanted to know from the Jedi Master's indigo gaze. _He's tired_ , Obi-Wan thinks, taking in every bit of the tall Jedi Master, _he didn't expect me to come._ There are shadows beneath the man's eyes, and the corners of his mouth are tight as if holding something in. Holding something back. And Obi-Wan is surprised at the accuracy with which he can read the man's body; that the stiffness in his face, the way he held his shoulders now _mean_ something to him, when before they were nothing more than minor observations. _He wouldn't have blamed me if I hadn't._

“It is an unexpected development,” Qui-Gon replies to the Queen, “but I assure you that Knight Kenobi is an asset to our mission.”

Obi-Wan bows. “I am here to assist, Your Highness.”

“Very well.” The Queen's dark eyes meet his for a moment longer before she turns to her troops. “My guess is the Viceroy is in the throne room.”

The Jedi pair fall behind the group as they head for the exit.

“You shouldn't be here.” The silver-haired Jedi Master doesn't look at him.

“I think we've had this conversation before,” Obi-Wan answers mildly, falling into step with the taller man's loping strides.

“I would not have you in danger.”

“Treskin will be investigated for war crimes. Palpatine has his hands in the thick of things. His campaign will be destroyed.”

“And you know...do you remember?”

“Bits and pieces. More every minute. Does it matter?”

“Obi-Wan.” The Jedi Master looks drawn and pale.

“Do you regret it?”

“What?”

“Do you regret this life?” Obi-Wan asks again, something akin to fear in his eyes as in the corridor beyond, the darkness heaves and grows stronger, searching.

The Jedi Master senses it too, inhales deeply, fingers curled about his 'saber.

“I regret nothing of what has brought me to you.” He hesitates, as if to speak, but remains silent.

Nevertheless, the young Knight hears the unspoken question. Hears it, and gently touches the Jedi Master's elbow, noting the warmth of the man's skin despite the concealing fabric. “Even before I knew you, I belonged to you; you had only to look at me. You know that.”

They draw close to the exit. Obi-Wan feels his stomach roil, a noxious combination of apprehension and memory blooming in his gut. He watches Padme palm the lock.

“Yes,” Qui-Gon says slowly, savoring the words he may never have the chance to say again. “Yes, I do.”

The door opens, revealing a familiar black-robed figure with sickly yellow eyes. Dark eddies of the Force pool around him, a twisted perversion of all that is sacred and pure and good. Padme and her troops back away.

“We'll handle this,” Qui-Gon says, stepping forward and shedding his cloak. Obi-Wan follows suit, feeling as though he is playing a part, as if he'd rehearsed for this movement before.

In the same second that it takes his blue 'saber to spring to life, Obi-Wan wonders how often they'd been there before, the three of them. How often had the Zabrak been in this hangar? How often had he fought the same Jedi? And then...what if he wasn't one of the lucky ones? What if he had always played the same role: one of the people who never allowed themselves to grow, to change, to _move on_ , and thus, never became someone new?

And that, Obi-Wan supposed, was the greatest tragedy of all.

The Sith activates his blade, the glow of it bright against the pitch-black tattoos. For a brief moment Obi-Wan wonders if some part of the creature remembers them. But then, he casts the thought away and attacks, launching himself into the air to land behind the Sith.

The Zabrak blocks the blow.

Neither the Sith nor the Jedi bother with flamboyant techniques; their blows are quick, grounded, merciless. The first thing Obi-Wan notices upon locking blades with the Zabrak is the unnerving precision with which the creature wields his 'saber staff. Almost as if he had been trained to expect two opponents. Almost as if he'd expected _them_. (Obi-Wan blocks an uppercut that would have skewered him from hip to shoulder and returns a savage thrust, while Qui-Gon duels the Sith from the front.) Behind them, Captain Panaka rushes the Queen and her troops from the room.

The Sith parries Obi-Wan's downward slash with a growl and slams his foot in Qui-Gon's chest. The Jedi Master hits the floor with a thud. Obi-Wan surges forward to cover him, pushing the Sith into the corridor, arms thrumming with every impact of the Zabrak's blade on his.

Mere moments pass before Qui-Gon appears at his side, eyes blazing. Their dance is familiar, Obi-Wan thinks, easy – as if falling back into some memorized pattern, anticipating the other's every move. (The Jedi Master's blade hums, wielded with vicious strength. The Sith evades, cat-like.) It was like his body knew what his mind had forgotten. It--

_Tha-crakkh._

His nose snaps as the floor rushes up to meet him. Obi-Wan lands hard on his side, stunned. Something warm trickles down his chin and he knows instinctively that it is blood.

The young Knight climbs to his feet.

It was coming back to him with every breath, with every flicker of light reflected in the Sith's eyes...he remembered this. He remembered being here, remembered feeling the same panicked-breathless-determination he was feeling now. Remembered what had happened after.

And it should have been concerning that after several lifetimes in this position, Qui-Gon couldn't seem to keep the upper hand. It should have been concerning that despite his greater experience and expanded skillset, Obi-Wan couldn't seem to keep the upper hand, either. But it wasn't. Because in his heart, he knew why it wasn't working. Knew that no matter what they tried, it _wouldn't_ work. It didn't matter that they had known what was coming. It didn't matter that Obi-Wan was older, wiser, stronger. It didn't matter that Qui-Gon, worn though he was, had been here before. (Obi-Wan feigns an attack, dodging the red blade before it can cut into flesh. The Sith parries Qui-Gon's backhanded cut with blinding speed and flips onto the catwalk behind him. The Jedi leap after him.)

Because choice was a powerful thing, Obi-Wan thinks, as the Sith backs away from them. (The Jedi force the creature further into the plasma refinery complex. Obi-Wan smiles with grim satisfaction at the Sith, who stumbles off balance and falls to the walkway below after a well-placed blow to the knee.) And really, this decision had been made before he'd even become aware of it. Some might have said that it had been chosen for him, but he didn't believe that. (Qui-Gon follows and is immediately tossed across the walkway like a ragdoll. Obi-Wan avoids the Force push meant for him, severing one of the Zabrak's horns before his blow is parried. Behind him, Qui-Gon groans but doesn't get up.)

The thing about choices, Obi-Wan reflects as he works around the Sith's defense to singe his shoulder, was that choices always had consequences. (Growling, the Sith backs closer to the seven laser gates that stand before the core of the complex. Obi-Wan grits his teeth and redoubles his attack. He can taste his own blood on his tongue, salty, metallic, and knows that it is a small price to pay for what is coming.)

The red lasers power down.

“Obi-Wan, no...!”

The young Knight traps the red blade with his, lifts a foot, and slams it into the Sith's gut. The Zabrak staggers, clutching his abdomen. Obi-Wan stalks forward.

The laser gates spring to life again, Jedi and Sith separated by a thin wall of lethal energy. Obi-Wan can feel Qui-Gon as a storm of anxious energy in the Force, can hear the heavy thump-thump-thump of his heart (or is it his own?) as if his ear were pressed against the man's chest. He wonders how much of his own anxiety was being projected. Had been projected the time before. How much Qui-Gon had felt as he'd lain on the floor, dying...

Something in Obi-Wan's chest uncoils, fierce and hot and protective.

There was nothing fated about this, nothing predetermined. He had made his choice, long before he'd even been aware. And he wasn't sure if he'd ever think about it as repayment, because if these things truly were cyclical, then there could be no such thing as sacrifice. There was no death; there was only the Force.

The rays turn away and Obi-Wan launches himself at the enemy. The Sith laughs, teeth black.

This wasn't a sacrifice; this was an offering. The Force required balance, after all. To live in one place meant death in another; to sacrifice oneself meant being saved. But nothing was predetermined. The only thing predestined was free will.

Obi-Wan can see the Jedi Master standing just before the last of the deadly rays, blood matting his hair, staring into the core of the complex as if watching some horrible accident, unable to look away. The sight of him, tall and strong and _alive,_ is so reassuring that Obi-Wan almost doesn't feel the plasma blade pierce his midsection, driving through the whole of him as if he were nothing; nothing but starlight and dust and...

“OBI-WAN!”

The blade slides from his body. Everything seems to slow. He can feel every desperate pulse of blood in his veins, every intake of breath, the agony centered in the core of his body. The Sith stares at him, yellow eyes meeting blue-green. And there is Qui-Gon, running into the chamber, thunderous and despairing and so very frightened.

Intellectually, Obi-Wan knows that he is falling, that his legs cannot hold him anymore, but he cannot feel his body in motion, cannot feel his back hitting the ground.

_You alone are worthy._

Obi-Wan stares at the lights overhead; he can hear the sound of clashing 'sabers, the dance of booted feet. A spike of panic overtakes him. What if he wasn't enough? What if an offering of himself, even now, isn't enough to save the Jedi Master from an undeserved death? He doesn't remember what happens next, what happens when--

_You, alone..._

“... _Obi-Wan_...”

An indeterminate amount of time later he hears a voice.

The young Knight opens his eyes, startled that they'd closed without him realizing. The pain in his stomach has dulled, the rest of his body numb and cold. For some reason his vision is hazy, as if looking at the world through glass. It doesn't bother him, though, because Qui-Gon is beside him, alive and well and breathing, and that was all that mattered.

“What...what happens now?” Obi-Wan chokes out, reaching blindly for the Jedi Master, grasping at the rough fabric of the man's tunic. A callused hand wraps around his. “I don't remember what it...what dying...I don't remember...”

“Shhh, love, I'm here.” The Jedi Master's hands do not tremble, but his voice does. Obi-Wan tightens his hold.

“Does it h-hurt?” the young Knight whispers.

“No,” a cool hand sweeps the hair back from his forehead, “no more than this.”

The lights above their heads have all blurred together. An eerie calm has settled over the room. Obi-Wan lets it sink down into his bones and tries to release his fear.

“I'm sorry, beloved.” The Jedi Master's voice is suspiciously hoarse. Obi-Wan can feel the soft greying strands brush his cheeks as the man bows his head. “I'm sorry. I tried, I--”

“S'okay. I chose.” Obi-Wan struggles to keep his eyes open. He is so, so tired. And it wasn't fair that these sentiments had to be rushed, spoken as if there were no time for them, no time left at all.

The soft yellow lighting has dimmed.

“I'll f-find you,” Obi-Wan whispers, “Promise.”

Qui-Gon presses his forehead to the red-gold strands of his lover's hair. “I love you,” he says softly, “I want you to know that I have always loved you.”

“T-tell me.”

“Tell you what, beloved?”

“Tell m-me...ag-gain.”

“I love you,” the Jedi Master repeats quietly, closing his eyes against the sudden rush of tears, “I love you, I love you, I...”

His recitation continues long after his lover has gone still and silent.

 

*****

 

 


	18. Journal Entry #9

_Journal Entry #9_

_Undated_

 

So here is a lesson, dear readers: love doesn't save your life.

Love doesn't save anything.

It doesn't make things easier, or shorter, or any less painful.

But it does give us the strength to perform impossible tasks. Love is what makes us worthy, and so very, very dangerous.

  
Remember: there will come a time when you believe everything is finished.

 

But that, in fact, will just be the beginning.

 

*****

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I accept hate mail: oddlyexquisite@yahoo.com
> 
> Y'all can keep track of my writing progress on tumbler: oddlyexquisite.tumblr.com
> 
> Two more chapters left...take heart, dear readers, there is still hope! <3


	19. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) Many, many thanks, as always, to my wonderful friend and Beta, Merry_Amelie! Without her, this work could not have been realized. Thank you so much for your support, dear Merry!
> 
> 2) I *HIGHLY* recommend that you go back and start from the beginning of the story before reading these last chapters, dear readers. It has been quite some time since I've posted, unfortunately.
> 
> 3) Some appropriate music for you: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NM-K2x62doA

* * *

 

No matter what I say here, no matter how it seems, I need you to remember that this is not just a tragedy. This is, partly, a love story.

Imagine, if you will:

You are in love. You cannot remember where you were before, and you do not know where you will be after, but you know that this love has always been there. Somehow this fact is incontrovertible.

You are in love, dear reader, and this is where the story begins.

 

*********

 

It is snowing.

A calming silence had descended upon the wood: no wind bit at his cheeks; no animal stirred from its burrow. The cast-iron lamps that illuminated the path had become nothing more than pinpoints of light in the pre-dawn darkness.

Placing one leather-clad foot in front of the other, the man pulls his cloak tighter. It was an early snowfall, this. He had expected to be off-planet before the winter storms hit. The man tilts his head toward the star-studded sky, icy flakes melting on his skin, his eyelashes, in his beard. If he looks long enough, he almost feels as if he is floating up, up, up amid the swirling white crystals.

He sighs, and lowers his head. The spaceport is still a day's walk to the north, and the Temple had no transportation to spare.

“A Jedi does not want,” Qui-Gon says aloud, breath clouding in the air when he huffs a laugh. He trudges forward, ignoring the twinge of strained muscle in his shoulder. His last mission had been a seemingly simple peacekeeping mission on Alderaan, but somehow during the course of the negotiations, an influential senator had managed to die in the middle of an impassioned speech regarding the taxation of trade routes to the Outer Rim. The senator's death had sparked one of the greatest political uproars Alderaan had ever seen.

A sudden gust of wind nearly tears his cloak from his shoulders. The cold front would come early as well, he supposed. While he had never minded it, Obi-Wan had hated the--

_Obi-Wan._

A searing pain blooms between his ribs, leaving him hunched over, gasping for air. His vision blurs.

_Breathe. In and out...the breath of the Force feeds the flame of the heart, and where the heart is ablaze, no darkness can withstand its fire...there is no Darkness that does not submit to the Light._

The Jedi Master inhales and allows that phrase to comfort him, letting the repetition cradle him in a familiar pattern until the words and meaning were obliterated, and he was left only with the sound of it all. He still remembered, and he had written it many, many lives ago.

Slowly, slowly, Qui-Gon straightens. The spaceport was a day's walk north. He would have to reach it before the worst of the storm blew in.

He puts his left foot in front of his right, and keeps moving.

“A Jedi does not want,” Qui-Gon whispers to himself. It has been a long time since he's believed that, but he doesn't let his disbelief stop him from saying it.

The Jedi Master follows the yellow lights – Firefly Road, the children call it. From a great distance, the yellow-white globes looked like lightning bugs; the only way to reach the Jedi Temple. Legend had it that the road and its lampposts had existed long before the people did-- that they had been created by the hand of a god. And Qui-Gon almost believes it, because in all of his long, long years on this planet, the lamps have never gone out.

The Jedi Master pauses at the top of a hill to watch the first streaks of color spread across the grey sky. He remembers a lifetime when he would have done so on empty balconies after returning from his missions. He smiles briefly.

Not this time.

Refastening the leather tie in his braid, the Jedi Master trudges forward through ankle-deep snow. He can smell nothing but the crisp, cold morning air, and is glad for it. He still reeks of blaster smoke and singed hair, but now was not the time for vanity.

The Council had warned him. They had tried to convince him otherwise. A suicide mission, they'd called it, defending the ancient Temple. And yet, here he was, still standing against all odds. He, and a handful of other ascetic, rogue Jedi. But well-intentioned as they were, they could not withstand an army. They would need support.

Sighing, Qui-Gon reluctantly starts down the hill. The Council had said they would send a contact to scout the area and assess the defensive needs of the old Jedi fortress. The Master should have been at the designated spot come dawn, but he was late.

Qui-Gon waits in the snowy wood, holed away beneath a pine to the side of the path. If any creature should come his way, he would see it first.

He waits an hour, and then two.

The day stretches long before him.

Five hours.

Six.

Seven.

Twilight falls, and the Jedi Master has banked his fire. Perhaps there had been some misunderstanding. Perhaps the delegate's ship had come under attack. Perhaps the Council had decided against sending another seasoned Master to this Force-forsaken, icy tundra in the Outer Rim. Perhaps--

A figure emerges from between the trees in the distance, hard to see in the dimness of the twilight. He can just make out the glint of lamplight on raven-black hair, the coarse grey wool of a native woodsman. Qui-Gon watches, fingers brushing the lightsaber beneath his cloak when the figure draws too close to be only a stranger.

The man stops just beyond the firelight.

Qui-Gon clears his throat. “It's a lonely road, this,” he says, “far from anywhere, and darkness is nearly upon us. Perhaps we should make camp together for the night. For safety's sake.”

The man steps around the fire, booted feet silent in the snow. The stranger throws back his hood, revealing startling blue-green eyes. He looks hard at the Jedi Master, but does not offer a reply.

And then it clicks. In that moment, Qui-Gon realizes that only one being has ever looked at him that way before.

Only one.

_You, alone..._

The stranger's face breaks into a brilliant smile (only he is not a stranger at all; he never had been at all) and he cups the Jedi Master's face in gentle hands.

“Well, hello there.”

Something warm and wet trickles down Qui-Gon's face. “You,” he whispers.

“Yes,” Obi-Wan says, eyes twinkling, “as promised.”

“How did you find me?”

“You know how.”

“That's no answer.”

“It isn't?”

“Then tell me,” the Jedi Master's voice cracks, “tell me again. Just once more, plainly.”

Obi-Wan gently rests his cheek against his lover's. “I love you,” he whispers, “I love you, I love you, I...”

 

*********

 

Knight Narsi Or'uula sinks into one of the oversized pillows in the creche's playroom and heaves a quiet sigh of relief. He ignores the no doubt very important buzz of his datapad, and opts for staring at the cream-colored walls in a blind stupor instead.

The creche at this hour was rarely quiet, as the crechelings had an uncanny ability to deduce exactly when a Master was sitting down to rest. At first, Narsi had dismissed Master Skywalker's conspiracy theories about the 'Youngling Agenda', but after several nights on creche duty, he is fully prepared to make any necessary apologies to his old Master.

His commlink beeps. He silences the communicator without a second thought. Anyone who wanted to speak to him that urgently would have to come and find him. (That way, he wouldn't be trapped down here all al-- )

“Can I have a drink, Sir?”

Narsi looks up from the floor and sees a youngling in the doorway, sleep-tousled and bleary-eyed.

The boy could not have been older than six or seven, Narsi decides, eyes lingering on the child's mussed hair.

“Why are you awake, little one?” the Jedi Knight asks, moving to fetch the glass of water. He watches the boy gulp it down, slurping the water thirstily.

The youngling hands him the empty glass, eyes downcast, and doesn't reply.

Knight Or'uula crosses his arms. “Can't sleep, eh?”

The boy shakes his head, and yawns.

Narsi suppresses another smile. “Do you think a story might help?”

“Yes, please, Master!” The young child practically glows with delight.

“Ah, storytime for you again, Benjamin?” a familiar voice asks warmly, “This is the third time this week, little one.”

A strand of prescience wanders into Narsi's thoughts. It plants itself at the back of his mind, like a gnat or a bit of bramble caught in cotton.

_Benjamin._

A strong name, Narsi thinks, looking curiously at the crecheling before him. A name to be proud of.

“Head for bed, little one. We'll be there soon.”

Narsi watches Benjamin scamper back to the sleeping area and turns to face the newcomer. He'd known who it was even before he'd turned to see the speaker. The legendary Knight is still wearing the dust from his travels; it sticks to his skin and clothing, and coats his greying hair. Anakin Skywalker was no longer young, but he would always be the Hero with No Fear, would always first and foremost be 'Master'. Anakin pulls Narsi into a warm embrace.

“Padawan,” the aging Master says fondly, by way of greeting, “Or shall I say, 'Knight' Or'uula?”

“Say whatever you like, Master. You always do.”

The Jedi Master 'hmphs', but the lines at the corner of his eyes deepen.

“It's good that you've returned,” Narsi continues, stepping away, “I wasn't sure I'd be able to hold down the fort much longer.”

Anakin shakes his head with mock sorrow. “Don't take it personally, Narsi. It's a wonder things function properly when I'm gone.”

The young Knight rolls his eyes and makes for young Benjamin's bedside. Anakin follows. For a moment, Narsi falls into step behind his former Master before realizing his mistake. He was a Padawan learner no longer. He wonders how many other newly made Knights had made that same mistake, wonders how many hundreds of thousands of Jedi he was following in this tradition. Wonders how many thousand more would follow him.

Benjamin is lying down in his bed, carefully wedged between two of his fellow crechelings, covers pulled up to his chin. The little ones shared beds until age dictated otherwise- an arrangement that fostered familiarity, trust, and an appreciation of privacy. When the youngling sees Master Skywalker step into the room, his eyes widen.

“Perhaps we should move to a different room,” Narsi whispers, “we'll wake the--”

But Anakin kneels beside the bed with the confidence of a man who'd done it before, and when he speaks, Narsi can hear the Force-suggestion in the Jedi Master's voice as whisper-thin strands of calm and comfort. The boy's saucer-like eyes practically shine with awe.

Narsi sighs. Just one story, then. He settles back into his chair by the bedside, hands linked behind his head.

“Let's make a deal, Benjamin,” Anakin whispers to the youngling. “I'll tell you my favorite story, and you'll do your best to sleep. Alright?”

The boy nods eagerly, the outline of his head a silhouette against the light spilling in from the hallway. Narsi closes his eyes, letting the sound of his Master's voice wash over him.

“Alright, then.” Master Skywalker clears his throat. “Once upon a time, beyond the circles of this world, there was a boy and he was in love...”

 

*****

 


	20. Journal Entry #10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) All credit for this beautiful prose poem/story belongs to Tongari, who published this piece, "25 Lives" in the zine _Shousetsu Bang*Bang_. I happened across it whilst reading darthrevaan's own fic "Twenty Five Lives" here on AO3.

* * *

 

_Journal Entry #10_

_Undated_

 

The very first time I remember you, you are blond and you don't love me back.

The next time you are a brunette and you do.

After a while, I give up trying to guess if the color of your hair means anything, because even if you don't exist, I'm always in love with you.

I remember most fondly those lifetimes where we get to grow up together, when you share your secrets and sorrows and hiding places with me. I love how you play along with my bad ideas before you grow up and realize they are bad ideas. (And in our times together I have many, many bad ideas.) When we meet as adults, you’re always much more discerning.

I don't blame you.

Yet, always, you forgive me.

As if you understand what’s going on, and you’re making up for all the lifetimes in which one of us doesn’t exist, and the ones where we just, barely, never meet.

I hate those. I prefer the ones in which you kill me.

(But when all’s said and done, I’d rather surrender to you in other ways...)

Even though each time I know I’ll see you again, I always wonder: Is this the last time? Is that really you? And what if you’re perfectly happy without me?

Ah, but I don’t blame you; I’ll never burn as brilliantly as you.

It’s only fair that I should be the one to chase you across ten, twenty-five, a hundred lifetimes...until I find the one where you’ll return to me.

 

*****

**The End**

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


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